Tidal Wave.

I glimpse their arms parting the sea with solid strokes before I slip back under, a half-gasped breath cradled in my starving lungs, and if I could keep my head above water for just a fraction longer, I might ask how it is they manage not to drown.

(I long ago lost strength to stay afloat.)

...

The world is large and full of shadows. I think the secret is (everyone knows but no one knows), we're all stumbling.

...

I once heard of a believer who built a boat, and though it rained for forty days and and forty nights, the flood could not touch him.

...

I once heard of a people who walked across the dry bed of a sea that was rolled back like a scroll, and made it to the other side.

...

I once heard of a prophet who was tossed into stormy waters, and a great fish swallowed him whole, and later spat him onto a safe shore. 

...

I once heard of a man who told the churning waves to be still, and they obeyed.

...

I once heard of a disciple who stepped on the water's swirling surface, and it held him like solid ground.

...

(I'm only trying to say, these oceans are as inevitable as they are impossible.

But even if we cannot swim, we have a God who can keep us from drowning.)

I Ask the Stars.

I'm learning to take comfort in my backwards life.

I still struggle sometimes, with the desire for "normality". People with normal lives aren't questioned, cautioned, asked to justify themselves. Instead, they are applauded, praised, considered a success. Rather than having a panic attack when asked about their future, they can calmly give a response detailing their educational, financial, career, and marital goals. They know the kind of car they want to drive, the kind of house they want to live in, and have already begun a college fund for their 1.5 children.

And when my own response is an awkward shrug of the shoulders, I'm already inwardly cringing at the expressions of disbelief I know I'll receive in return (their thoughts, loud enough to hear, what is wrong with you, what are you thinking?), and a (large, loud) part of me wishes that I had my life together, neatly packaged and ready for send-off into a big, bright future I've sculpted with my bare hands.

But I'm learning to take comfort, in this rather unsettling brand of insanity that is my life. I'm learning to set up my sails and trust the wind that carries me. I'm learning that I love you, but I don't need you, to tell me I'm alright.

I've placed my compass in better Hands.

It's been a long time since I've seen it. And there are moments, stretching painfully long, when my faith wavers. On those dark and desperate nights, I look up with pleading glance, and ask, Where, oh where, am I?

And the stars reply, with their twinkling eyes: Little child, of little faith. Do not fear; you are on course. These waters are drawing you, ever North.

While We are Sleeping.

I've noticed one near-universal rule within American churches: Get the congregation out on time. I hear half-jokes by harried pastors as they carefully arrange their watch beside their sermon notes. I watch worship leaders coordinate songs in precise measurement--not too many, not too few, with just the right amount of repetitions--verse-chorus-verse-chorus-chorus-bridge. But no more than that--people have dinner to eat, movies to see, jobs to work, lives to get back to. It breaks my heart.

In the Old Testament, we see a group of people who responded quite differently to their opportunity to enter God's throne-room.

"The Israelites gathered together, fasting and wearing sackcloth and having dust on their heads. Those of Israelite descent had separated themselves from all foreigners. They stood in their places and confessed their sins and the wickedness of their fathers. They stood where they were and read from the Book of the Law of the LORD their God for a quarter of the day, and spent another quarter in confession and in worshiping the LORD their God," (Nehemiah 9:1-3).

A quarter of the day. That's six hours--not sitting in cushion pews, but standing. Six hours reading the Word, six hours in confession and worship. And we get antsy if the Sunday sermon goes over an hour? Rushing through the service, cutting of the Holy Spirit and checking our cell phones to ensure we're not late for lunch?

Meanwhile, we blame the unbelievers for America's spiral into depravity. We forget, it's not they who have the power to quench the Spirit--it's us. And we do it so well.

Yet even now, Jesus pleads with us: Can you not keep watch with me for one hour?

Dear ones. This is the turning of the tide. The moment of dark that will lead to the dawn. The hour grows late, and our oil burns low. Will we so easily succumb to the heaviness of our eyelids? Will we so quickly give in to our selfish impulses? Will we so nonchalantly stifle the Spirit that is our only hope of rescue?

And even now, Jesus speaks: When I come, will I find faith upon the earth?

Why I'm Single.

I don't listen to love songs anymore. I avoid romantic movies, when I can. I scroll quickly through "I <3 him" Facebook statuses and "waiting for a godly man" memes. I cut off imaginings of my future husband. I often fight any feelings of affection for the men in my life. And I stubbornly refuse to "date" or "be in a relationship."

It's not easy. And it's not forever. It's not out of bitterness toward couples--some need to rebel against the culture and charge ahead with a banner declaring my singleness. It's not out of resentment toward men--my respect toward them has only increased, not decreased, in recent months. It's not out of a holier-than-thou mentality that seeks to create rules in order that I might feel better about myself.

No. The reason I'm staying away from romance is because I struggle with it so. It's because this root of my insecurity goes down deep. It's because I've spent years despising my singleness, even hating myself because of it, certain that it was my own irredeemable flaws that left me alone. It's because some part of me still believes that marriage will save me, though my Spirit knows it's a lie. It's because my desire to "fall in love" is an idol I must cast down every day.

It's because my heart is deceitful, and it is always telling me that now is the time love desires to be awakened.

That was why, when I received my second confirmation that now is not the right time, I felt the emotions simultaneously, in equal measure--the disappointment, and the relief.

Because no, this path isn't easy. But it is right.

Daughters of Jerusalem, I charge you: Do not arouse or awaken love until it so desires. -Song of Songs 8:4

Not-Dear Satan,

You cannot have them. They do not belong to you. I see God in their eyes, feel the tug of His Spirit threading our heart-strings together. We are His sons, His daughters. You have no claim on us; you lost it in a moment,  a sliver of time that echoed through eternity, that whisper of the Lamb: It is finished. 

Jesus Christ. (Even now, do you feel the urge to bow?) His blood covers us. His Spirit fills us. His authority goes before us. His protection goes behind. His word springs from our lips, alive and active. His love wells up in our hearts, driving out fear.

For many years, we have forgotten. We have been foolish enough to believe your lies. We have been arrogant enough to battle you in our own strength. But no longer. Our Father is restoring the hearts of His children, free from the caskets we covered them in. He is stirring up the ashes of a long-dead flame, the coals set aglow by the taste of His breath. It is a fire many waters cannot hope to quench. It is a fire that burns forever.

We will no longer stand quietly by while you rip our brothers and sisters to bleeding bits. We will no longer back down at the first sign of the fray. Our God is for us, and you will not stand. His seal upon our hearts, upon our arms. His Name, written on our foreheads. (Can you even bear to look?) The victory is ours. Through grace, we are learning how to wield it.

So back the Hell away. Or we'll send all of Heaven after you.

Tall Tails.

The other day, I was watching the cartoon classic An American Tail with a group of friends (yes, we're all highly mature, intelligent adults--don't judge). Near the end of the film (for those poor souls among you who have not seen it), there is a scene in which an evil cat who has been masquerading as a rat is stripped of his false identity, and a crowd of mice denounces him in anger and disgust. And the cat, who refuses to admit to the lie, says, "Who are you going to believe? Me, or your own eyes?"

Of course, in the context of the movie, the question is ridiculous. No mouse with any sense in its (admittedly tiny) brain would believe the words of the deceitful cat over the clear evidence set before its own two eyes.

But suddenly I thought of the quote in an altogether different scenario. I heard the words again, and this time they were spoken by the voice of God: Who are you going to believe? Me, or your own eyes?

Because sometimes, the things God asks us to believe are a great deal more far-fetched than a cat claiming to be a rat. But unlike the cat, when God speaks, it is not a charade--it is truth. When God speaks, it is not to hurt us, but to give us life. Paul was so confident in this, he said, "Let God be true, and every human being a liar," (Romans 3:4).

Honestly, now. Do we trust God that much? Over the opinions of every person we love and respect? Over the perceptions of our own senses? Over the reality that we have constructed around ourselves since the day of our birth?

We should. Because God's reality is far truer than our own. His ways soar higher, His thoughts dig deeper (Isaiah 55:8-9). The world we see around us is experienced as if through a glass, darkly, but when we are brought up to Himself, we will see everything as it truly is (1 Corinthians 13:12).

God is calling us to a higher faith. He is calling us to believe Him with everything, regardless of what anyone else says, regardless of our own thoughts or emotions or circumstances.. The rest of the world will call us crazy. They will use words like impossible. But we will not understand, because such words do not exist for us. We are children of the Infinite; there is no impossible for us. We will never say never again.

It Really Is You.

Last night, our weekly meeting of Jesus-lovin' young-adults centered around the story of Peter walking to Jesus on the water. It's one I've heard so many times, I have a tendency to think I know all there is to know about it.

But, as usual, God proved me wrong.

Other than the message relating directly to the Holy Spirit's movement in this present time, mirroring the words of many of my prayers lately, and using the word "bold" about five thousand times (for the significance of that last one, see my "Ninja in the Night" entry)--there was one other thing that struck me as we discussed the passage in Matthew 14. It was verse 29.

Jesus said, "Come."

When Peter asked to join Jesus on the water, Jesus didn't say, "Hang on. Not yet, Peter. Your faith isn't quite ready for that. Maybe in a few months or so, we'll test you on a puddle or something." He didn't say, "Wait a minute, Peter. Let me get over there so I can hold your hand." No. Despite the fact that Jesus knew Peter was going to take his eyes off Him and start to sink, He welcomed Peter's desire, his boldness. So Jesus said, "Come."

God is waiting for His kids to ask for greater things. He's waiting for the ones who want to be right next to Him, regardless of the oceans they must cross and the crosses they must carry. He's waiting to hear those words: Lord, if it really is You, then command me to come to You.

He won't hesitate. Not for a second. He'll simply smile, and say, Come.

Like a Little Child.

It's time to drop the cynicism. We've given it a fancy name, but it's really only an intellectualized word for unbelief. And it is a poison, saturating our veins and crippling our bones.

Where is your child-like faith, sons and daughters of the King? Have you so quickly become weary of doing good?

We blame it on our environment. We blame it on the music. We blame it on the people. We blame it on the lack of results. And it causes me to wonder: Since when have our circumstances weighed heavier than the promises of God?

Since you tried to accomplish My promises in your own strength, His voice answers me.

Dear children, Daddy wants to lift us up on His shoulders, miles above these mountains. He is waiting for someone who is unafraid to believe. Someone who doesn't expect to fail as they take that first step onto the ocean's churning surface. Someone like you.

Only, give Him your doubt. That jaded look in your eye. That voice in the back of your mind that whispers impossible. Rebuke the lies, and let His truth set you free.