Goin' to the Chapel of Love.

Chaos (noun) - a state of utter confusion or disorder; a total lack of organization or order, e.g., the week preceding a wedding.

I drove to Alabama on a Monday, happily exchanging the palm trees of the coast for the kaleidoscoped colors of the autumn-cloaked mountains. My college roommate and dear friend, Kayla, was to be married the following weekend, and I was arriving early to offer whatever assistance I could during the final preparations.  

In the midst of mass chaos, the line between tragedy and comedy is often a fine one. It's as if you have been inserted into one of those disaster movies where everything goes wrong, and though even hearing the two words "tablecloth" and "crisis" strung together might be hilarious from the other side of a television screen, the dilemma of a tablecloth shortage suddenly seems more serious when you're the one who has to fix it. Especially when a new dilemma is certain to arise the next time the phone rings, which is apparently about every fifteen minutes for a bride-to-be.

As the week progressed, we were late for nearly everything. Decorating the reception, the rehearsal, the bachelorette party, the pictures. But somehow, at 3:47pm on October 27, 2012, a gray, windy day that was kind enough to withhold the rain, all the pieces came together as if drawn by an unseen force (let's just call it God), and the rest of the week melted away into the single moment that mattered, the moment that all the week's craziness had been leading toward.

Kayla entered the aisle from the basement stairs, veiled and radiant in white, her mother by her side. I ventured a glance at the groom. The expression on Daniel's face was one I had seen before. It meant the woman he loved had entered the room. 

Kayla and her mother walked slowly, to the rhythm of the gentle music. When they reached the front of the church, Kayla's mom lifted the veil to give her daughter a kiss before taking her seat. The preacher, who also happened to be Daniel's grandfather, said a few words, but the words didn't seem as important as the people standing there, they couldn't encompass the meaning that those two lives did.

Then came the vows. These promises they had written themselves, and Daniel went first. I smiled while he spoke and tried to keep the tears at bay, for I had no doubt that he meant every word of love and devotion he uttered. When he finished, it was Kayla's turn. As she read her vows, her voice began to shake--not with fear or nervousness, but with the strength of her emotion. And I started to cry, because I knew the stories behind the words, the stories that had led Kayla and Daniel here. I knew the roads they had traveled to stand before us that day were not easy ones. But I also knew, as the bride and groom looked into each other's eyes, and the joy lit their faces in a way that words simply cannot do justice, that it had all been worth it, for the sake of this moment.

They lit the unity candle, were pronounced husband and wife, kissed. Walked down the aisle as Relient K's "Must Have Done Something Right" played in the background. We followed them outside, where hugs and congratulations were exchanged. We shivered in weather that had dropped twenty degrees since the previous day, but we were happy, because they were happy, and because their love was beautiful.

The reception was perfect. Lasagna for dinner, followed by a speech by the Best Man, which celebrated the occasion as a truly momentous one. The cake was cut, and a second speech was given, this time by the Maid of Honor, Kayla's little sister. The speeches were so filled with genuine love for both the bride and groom, I was fighting tears again. They danced their first dance as a married couple to the song "Kiss Me," by Sixpence None the Richer. Afterwards, we joined them on the dance floor, and the rest of the time was a blur of music and movement, broken only momentarily as the floor was cleared for the mother-daughter dance to Lee Ann Womack's "I Hope You Dance." The Maid of Honor also sang a gorgeous rendition in French of "The Music of the Night" from The Phantom of the Opera, though I've already forgotten where exactly in the order of events it was placed.

As the bride and groom prepared to leave, those of us who were left crowded them with goodbyes. We ran out ahead into the frigid night air, lining the path on either side and blowing bubbles over them as they walked to their car. Daniel helped Kayla into her seat. I waved goodbye and blew kisses at Kayla until they drove away.

It is awe-inspiring to witness something as God intended it to be. It is the feeling of watching the sun bleed over the horizon on a clear day, or snowflakes swirling down and blanketing the world in white, or standing on a mountaintop and seeing the world spread out below like a patchwork quilt, almost as if you are flying. It is a moment in which you know everything is beautiful and right, and you forget for an instant that the world is broken, as you see a vision of the world as it is supposed to be. 

Kayla and Daniel's love is like that. Yes, it has its imperfections. But if you spend any length of time with the two of them, you come across moments in which you see love exactly as God created it to be. A love like theirs is rare, but it is real, and when you see it, you can feel it in your bones. And I thank God for it, for I know these things are miracles, brief glimpses into heaven.

The Secret Place.

My gaze on the ground, He tucks a finger beneath my chin and gently lifts my head. When I meet His eyes, I am startled, trapped by the intensity of His love, for it burns with a power that makes my head spin, and its weight causes my knees to give way and sinks my body to the floor.

Still I can see His face. The whole world reflected in His eyes. And me, at its center, a child staring wide-eyed. He smiles, a contagious smile. Every feature of His countenance filled with light, my vision spilling over liquid gold, smearing the details. Joy pressing down like a thick blanket, I cannot move, I do not wish to.

There is no other moment. There is no past or future. Only this. He is, He is, He is. Everything else faded into nonexistence, mirages that vanish as reality pulls into focus. Thousand upon thousands of angels in the peripheral, white-robed singing Holy, and I can almost grasp what it means. His voice, calling me daughter, a whisper breaking through.

(This moment does not end. It goes on forever.)

Rant.

(Originally written March 17, 2010. I discovered this piece among my many random Word documents. It's much more raw than most of what I post--but probably more honest because of it. I considered switching the capitalized letters to italics so you wouldn't feel yelled at, but I decided to keep the original emotion intact--the original emotion being, mostly, anger.)

I am just in one of those moods, you know. One of those moods with too many thoughts, thoughts that need an outlet, some grand weaving that glues the puzzle pieces together--do you mind if I mix metaphors? I thought about writing poetry, as it would be the most responsible use of my time. But my mind couldn't stand the thought of organizing at the moment. Even these sentences are a bit much. Reading stream of consciousness can be a pain, but it's an awful lot of fun to write. Already I'm hitting a dead end, though. It's so difficult to catch a wave, they just keep rolling over the shore, and as soon as you cup it in your hands, the water is seeping back to the sea. Another metaphor, you see. I love metaphors, but again, only if I am the one writing them. Metaphors are a tricky business. Because I wasn't really talking about waves at all, but my thoughts. Perhaps I've lost you already.

Hypocrisy is one of the things that has been on my mind lately. I wish I could rid the world of it. Starting with myself. I mean, really. We are so selfish, and on top of that are pretentious enough to lie about it. I have heard INCREDIBLE words spurt out of people's mouths. Naturally, I thought to myself: wow, what an incredible person. One day, I'd like to meet the person who actually believes the words coming out of their mouth. It's true, I'm being cynical. Yet another habit I swore I would break. I have met people who really seem to live out what they believe. And I'm not judging; like I said, when it comes to being hypocritical, I want to start with myself. Dear God, I believe...help me overcome my unbelief! I have been praying that prayer for a long time. I CLAIM to serve a God whom I SAY that I believe has the power to do the impossible. So my question is: what the crap am I doing?

My second question is: how? How do I love others? Or for that matter, how do I love myself? When I do the things I do not want to do, when I say I believe something yet don't live like it...how can I love a creature like that? Dear God, HOW?! How much longer must I tarry with myself? O unbelieving generation! All the words Jesus spoke to his disciples, I cry aloud to myself.

Daddy, you promised. Without you, I have nothing. Without you, I am nothing. Dear God, RAIN! YOUR DAUGHTER NEEDS YOU! DON'T YOU, A GOOD GOD, KNOW HOW TO GIVE GOOD GIFTS TO YOUR CHILDREN?! I BELIEVE O LORD, I BELIEVE, IN THE WORD THAT YOU PROMISED, IN THE WORD THAT YOU PROMISED...HELP ME OVERCOME MY UNBELIEF! I CANNOT COME UNLESS YOU DRAW ME IN! I CANNOT BE FILLED UNLESS YOU SEND YOUR HOLY FIRE DOWN! PROVE YOUR WORD O GOD! BRING IT OUT AS GOLD IN THESE FIRES! TRUTH, TRUTH, IF IT IS TRUTH, IF YOU ARE TRUTH...then I am safe. I don't have the right words to say. God. Jesus. You are the only word I have left.

The Last Stroke of Twelve.

Scenario: A great enemy has captured the hero's beloved. The beloved is bound in chains, and is most likely being lowered slowly into a pit of lava or a lake infested with ravenous crocodiles. The enemy is delivering a speech declaring that the hero is dead, or soon will be. In this moment of what should logically be utter despair, the beloved instead looks resolutely at the enemy and says, "My hero will come for me." The enemy laughs and continues to lower the beloved towards certain death. Then! At the last possible moment, in the final seconds of the final hour, the hero arrives, rescuing the beloved and defeating the enemy (as epic music plays triumphantly in the background, of course). And the beloved gazes into the eyes of the hero and whispers, "I knew you would come for me."

Sound familiar? So many films have used some version of this plot line, we can walk into a movie theater and within ten minutes, predict the story's outcome. It has become so common, in fact, that we rarely stop to consider what a truly remarkable scenario it is.

Seriously. How can the beloved have that much faith that her hero will come to her rescue? A split second away from death. Every visible circumstance contrary to the belief in a happy ending. Yet the beloved still has complete confidence in the hero. Complete assurance of the story's end. We accept it because it's "just a movie," but if you were actually in that scenario--if you could feel the heat from the lava scorching your toes, or the crocodiles' sharp teeth grazing your ankles--who would you bet on? The enemy, who has you in his clutches? Or the hero, who once gave you a promise of love, but is now nowhere to be found?

This scenario is something we all experience, you know. Probably not literally. But spiritually speaking, it happens all the time. For our God has a great Enemy. And just like in the movies, the Enemy is well aware that the quickest way to break the heart of the Hero is to capture the Beloved--to capture us. He is always seeking to devour. And we are all too-easily lured into traps and tricked by lies.

The question is: When the Enemy has us at the end of our rope, inches away from death, with no escape in sight, do we have the faith to say, "My Hero will come for me"? Because the Hero is coming, beloved. He is already on His way. The hour is late, but not too late. The ending has already been written: He will reach you just in time.

Psalm 42: The AR Translation.

Like the deer thirsts for a cool drink of water in the heat of the day, so I long for You, my God. I'm desperate for a touch from the living God, my Source of renewal, the Well that never runs dry. Where can I go to find Him? Day after day I've searched, but the only sustenance I've had are my tears. Everyone keeps saying, "Where is your God? You claim He loves you, so why can't you find Him?" These thoughts break my heart. And to think that once, I used to walk among my brothers and sisters in Christ, full of joy and confidence, leading them into the very Presence of God by my proclamation of His goodness in my life.

But why am I so depressed? Why am I so bitter and angry? No matter what troubles I face, no matter what pain I feel, I need to put my hope in God again and continue to glorify His name, for He is the one who saves me--He is still my God.

When the sadness comes, I will remember the Jordan River, the place where You made Your great promises to me, near the peaks of Hermon and Mount Mizar, the mountaintops where You filled me with Your Spirit and lit my face with Your beauty. Troubles keep rushing over me, again, and again, and again, roaring like a waterfall in my ears; Your waves crash over me, drowning my vision. But even in the midst of this, the LORD reveals His unconditional love for me every day. At night, He fills my heart with a gentle song, and I pray to Him, for I know that He is alive and hears me, even when I can't feel Him. I speak to God, my strong Foundation, in the midst of my weakness, crying, "Why have you forgotten me? Why have you allowed this depression to take over, and the demons to torment me?" The enemies' lies sap my strength; it feels like they are snapping my bones in two. They keep taunting me, saying, "Where is your God?"

But why am I so depressed? Why am I so bitter and angry? No matter what troubles I face, no matter what pain I feel, I need to put my hope in God again and continue to glorify His name, for He is the one who saves me--He is still my God.

Dear God,

Thank you for morning, new colors bleeding into the sky, into my eyes. The days die and die again, but always, there is new life. (And) though I die a thousand times, I discover suddenly my lungs filled up with breath. My spirit wallowing in dust, You dress me in bone and flesh and sing over me until my heart is beating again.

I despise words, how they cannot describe these miracles: (such as) the way sorrow and smiles can spring simultaneously in the soul--it is a paradox, but both can be honest. Emotions, thoughts, contradictory, coexisting. And I want to fully explain where they flow from, for them, (for me). I want to understand (myself?), but I am at a loss.

Abba, what am I saying? Do You hear Your daughter when I am nonsensical? Can Your Spirit interpret what I cannot?

I know the answers to these questions. But I like to hear You tell me. It reminds me that You are listening. Maybe it's just between You and me today, Daddy. A secret, and I catch glimpses, but never quite reach its end (sometimes I spend hours spinning deep into frustration, in my attempts to unravel). Still. You are making me new, just like the morning. A shapeless smear of colors, but, oh--how the light breaks through beautifully. 

Desperate Times.

No where in the Bible does God promise that He will not give us more than we can handle. I think the misconception comes from a distorted reading of 1 Corinthians 10:13, which says that God will not allow you to be tempted beyond what you can bear. But while you may suffer while you are tempted, there are many kinds of suffering that have nothing to do with temptation.

I believe that God very often overwhelms us with much more than we can handle. Paul seemed to think so, too:

"We were under great pressure, far beyond our ability to endure, so that we despaired even of life. Indeed, in our hearts we felt the sentence of death," (2 Corinthians 1:8-9, emphasis added).

Sounds like David, who was anointed as the future king, but for years lived in caves in exile, running in fear from murderous Saul. Sounds like Job, who served and honored God wholeheartedly, and yet in a single day lost everything. Sounds like Jesus, who lived a sinless life, pleading that the cup might be passed from him as he wept tears of blood in the Garden of Gethsemane. I'll bet that they, as well as the vast majority of other characters we meet in Scripture, would say God gave them way more than they could handle.

And in the midst of our sorrows, the question that pounds us over and over is: Why? What happened to the God who claimed to love us? Where do we turn to for hope? Well, keep reading. Paul has an answer.

"But this happened that we might not rely on ourselves but on God, who raises the dead. He has delivered us from such a deadly peril, and he will deliver us. On him we have set our hope that he will continue to deliver us," (2 Corinthians 1:9-10).

Don't you see, beloved? God didn't promise that He would never give us more than we could handle. He promised that He would never give us more than He could handle. And His power is infinite. It's okay to feel inadequate, and overwhelmed. It's okay to realize that you can't do this. It's okay to admit impossibilities. He knew you couldn't do this in your own strength; He never expected you to. All along, He's been waiting for you to give your burden to Him. He doesn't want you to carry it anymore. He wants to give you the yoke that is easy, and light. And then, we may join Paul in saying:

"This all-surpassing power is from God and not from us. We are hard pressed on every side, but not crushed; perplexed, but not abandoned; struck down, but not destroyed. Therefore we do not lose heart. Though outwardly we are wasting way, yet inwardly we are being renewed day by day. For our light and momentary troubles are achieving for us an eternal glory that far outweighs them all," (2 Corinthians 4:7-8; 16-17).

The Trouble With Tails & Wild Geese.

Our world is fueled by the something more. There must be, there must be, there must be. We are always running. Tally up the competition, mourn every setback and struggle as an unfair disadvantage. This is the pursuit of we were promised. We no longer believe in enough.

The source of our discontentment is this: we accept the lie that we are entitled to something. That as "decent" human beings, we deserve to have lives defined by our own happiness. We forget that EVERY blessing is a gift, not a right, given to us by a God who lavishes His mercies upon us. That is why Job, in the midst of utter devastation, was able to say:

"The LORD gave and the LORD has taken away; may the name of the LORD be praised." -Job 1:21

Don't you remember what you were when He found you? Feeble and crying and covered in blood. Abandoned and naked, with absolutely nothing to offer but stained and sodden rags. Children of darkness, born into the womb of death. A pitiful sight, to be sure. But it was only as our natures deserved.

(Yet, God...)

"I led them with cords of human kindness, with ties of love; I lifted the yoke from their neck and bent down to feed them." -Hosea 11:4

"No longer will they call you Deserted, or name your land Desolate. The LORD will take delight in you, and your land will be married. You will be called Sought After, the City No Longer Deserted." -Isaiah 62:4, 12 

There is nothing God could take from us that would be unjust. Everything we have, everything we are, belongs to Him. Every breath. Every heartbeat. Every love. Every hope. They are His gifts to us, for He is a Father who loves to give good gifts to His children. And if all else is taken away, there yet remains reason to celebrate, because we have already received the greatest gift we can ever be given, the only gift that truly makes us whole--the gift of Himself.

It's time to stop chasing what can never satisfy. It's time to stop pretending that this race can make us whole.

Deceitful, Above All Things.

My heart, too heavy to float, sinks to the bottom of the sea. It is calmer, here--the waves only crash on the surface. Yet the pressure is enormous, the dark thick and boundless. There is no easy way to drown.

(Fickle feelings are quick to construct the alternate realities we lose ourselves in, dead-end branches of a tangled maze, we spend our lives wandering. The exit sign flashes red, but we are easily distracted, by so many illusions, insubstantial as smoke. We believe it when we see it, though we spend our whole lives stumbling through mirages. Our world tethered to what we feel--this is real, this is true, this is touch and taste and smell.)

Follow your heart. Over the cliff, straight to the bottom of the sea--right here next to me. We will lament the lives that led us here, recite the cruelties of fate. Curl into the dead-end and say, to die here is a beautiful irony.

(As water fills our lungs, we have no ears left to hear, how our hearts induced hallucinations--all we had to do was breathe.)

Good Morning, October.

Leaves curdle, green to gold, and fall. It's a long way down, from tree to ground. The world seems so much bigger from here, they think to themselves, as the sky overhead arches its gray, damp back behind the delicate net of branches they once called home, those bark-bound fingers now bare as bone. The wind scoops up the leaves' brittle bodies, the whisper of their haphazard flight like the murmured rustle of turned pages. The world spins in an ocean churning with faded color, mixing into muddied brown.

The leaves build piles like wishes build regrets, gathering together for solace the way dust motes do, an altar to memory, to what once-was. They cover the sidewalks and line the gutters, and soon feet will trample their bodies and snap their spines, but they do not complain. They tasted sky, once. The earth is not too much to bear.

Life is a circle, of cycles, of seasons, of repetitions, of nothing-new-under-the-suns. We are not leaves, but we know well the sensation of falling. The heartbeat of the seasons is a clockwork we cannot control, yet we are always fighting, even as we watch the colors bleed into gray--there is nothing we can do to staunch it. Only mourn, and wait for morning. Sweep away the regrets so you can breathe again, and beware the backward glance, lest you miss: the way the autumnal sun paints everything in gold.