Looking Back

One year ago today, I shut myself into our SUV and sobbed as we drove away from the dearest faces on earth. I followed the square yellow truck northwards, through sleepy Southern towns and flooding Georgia cities, through awe-inspiring mountain passes and quiet peaceful forests. And finally, Maryland. 

A year later, I'm back, and I'm so much richer than I was but one year ago. I've gained more dear, darling faces that I weep to leave. I've gained another home in the beautiful hills of Maryland. I've gained stories of my King's faithfulness and love in times of deepest struggle. I'm back, and I'm blessed. 

One song rings through my mind as I look back on the eighteenth year of my life, the hardest, most painful and the best, most beautiful year of my life. One song in particular that looks backward and marries the tears and the pain with the joy and the hope found only in God.

I never have and never will walk alone.

Standing on this mountaintop

Looking just how far we’ve come

Knowing that for every step

You were with us

Kneeling on this battle ground

Seeing just how much You’ve done

Knowing every victory

Was Your power in us

Scars and struggles on the way

But with joy our hearts can say

Yes, our hearts can say

Never once did we ever walk alone

Never once did You leave us on our own

You are faithful, God, You are faithful

Kneeling on this battle ground

Seeing just how much You’ve done

Knowing every victory

Was Your power in us

Scars and struggles on the way

But with joy our hearts can say

Never once did we ever walk alone

Carried by Your constant grace

Held within Your perfect peace

Never once, no, we never walk alone

Never once did we ever walk alone

Never once did You leave us on our own

You are faithful, God, You are faithful

Every step we are breathing in Your grace

Evermore we’ll be breathing out Your praise

You are faithful, God, You are faithful

You are faithful, God, You are faithful

(Never Once, Matt Redmon)

Many Partings

Isn't it amazing how changing a medium can coax thoughts into logical sentences. I spent long minutes sitting with this blank "compose" box glaring back at me. All I needed was a late night, a blank journal, and a new ink pen to pin my thoughts down. Finally, I sigh with relief, and copy the entry onto this blog.

I will never cease to understand the constant nudge I feel to publicly post on this very public blog my personal struggles and feelings. Perhaps it is rooted in a desire to help others. No, I'm far too sinful for so pure a desire. It probably has more to do with a strange sort of self-righteousness and false humility. Whatever the case, I post this journal excerpt here, mildly altered to avoid exposing identities and excruciating grammar errors.

6/13/11

I have never been a good journaler, and I don't expect that will change now. However, sometimes I need a thought dump, so I begin a new memoir. Here goes.

The past five weeks or so have been titled by myself, "Many Partings." Actually, the allusion to Tolkien will probably be extended to the whole summer. Why? Well, the obvious (and obscure all at the same time) answer is this: I am moving from my beloved home for 10 months to a new state, where I will live in a big city, attend a large church, and meet numerous people. For an introverted homebody, this is quite a traumatic prospect. Nonetheless, this is not my only reason.

This weekend I have been filled with a melancholy, half-mournful mood, and I think all these "many partings" are the source of my feelings. First, we have numerous literal partings: leaving my family for a trip abroad, "farewelling" new friends and places in Europe, ending relationships from ensembles after a year of hard work, sending off a happy bride and groom, enduring the annual goodbyes with old friends who visit yearly, etc. These experiences crammed into so short a period without having a good, therapeutic cry would be reason enough for a girl to be overwhelmed after a while. Yet, there is more.

I often feel that I am a 60 year old woman trapped in a 16 year old's body. Well, if that has been the case in the past, then my 90th birthday came and went this month. I feel so much more grown up, if that is possible, for not all of my goodbyes have been so straightforward. Some are more allegorical, philosophical, and symbolic, yet no less painful.

I've said goodbye to a beloved friend, who will never be the same after being touched by cancer. Yes, she is still her faith-driven, cheerful, gorgeous self, yet neither her life nor mine will ever be the same again. I've watched and witnessed the first of my childhood chums pledge her troth to her new husband. And even before Hannah walked up the aisle, radiant and glowing with excitement, I shed tears as my dearest friends -- no, my darling sisters -- Ruthie and Elizabee moved toward the alter as bridesmaids. In that split second, I realized how quickly time passes. As a wise woman I know has said many times recently, "In the next ten years, our lives will be filled with the weddings of you children." Life is happening.

And then I confess another parting -- the parting with a dream. My habits of pinning fictitious vignettes and Byronic scenes onto every person I meet is such a painful one. * (See my Dreamer post.) * Even though I know that God has not planned it, I watched a match disintegrate into the mist. Oh! the complications of silly crushes. I am ashamed to admit it, to even use such an inane word, yet I write it down, if for no other reason than my own humbling and the benefit of my own dear daughters one day.

Then I am reminded yet again of how little time I have left in this dear home of mine, and I fall into this horrid sadness. Lord, get me out!

I feel like time is like sand, constantly slipping through my fingers as a friend expressed through an email yesterday. I feel like Frodo, naked and groping in the dark, searching for protection, for something to cling to. All of my relationships, dreams, and normalcy has been kicked from under my feet. I feel like a man being hung at the gallows -- the prop has been moved; now I suffocate.

Look at this. Even as I write the words, I wonder how a girl can claim Christ as Redeemer and Friend and yet write such shallow words. I feel this, and I search for that. Who cares how I feel, and why do I search? There is truth that transcends each circumstance and emotion; there is hope which I have already received. I know that I know that I know. Then why is it so difficult? Why do I not understand His will, much less my own thoughts?

{Being a hormonal girl can be ever so frustrating.}

God, you are my Fast Anchor amidst the swelling seas of uncertainty, confusion, and downright misery. You are my Loving Father who smothers me with constant gifts to grow and mature me. You are the Beloved Bridegroom, enough to satisfy every thirst for intimacy, protection, and love. Grow me into a grateful girl -- not merely content, "gutting out" the godly response -- but wholly and completely dripping with thanksgiving for every painful circumstance and confusing situation.

* Note: I am not suicidal nor in the depths of despair right now. I share the thoughts that came to mind as ink flowed onto paper, and I tend to exaggerate in my constant journey to heights of literary genius. I'm fine, and God is faithful! (But isn't that so sad? My mind is so bothersome. I can't vent my own thoughts without the authoress inside watching for parallelism and pointing out potential phrases just begging for alliteration. Argh. It's kind of like when I cry. The actress inside yanks me over to a mirror, so that I can see what a sorrowful girl ought to look like. I hate feeling so base, fake, and shallow.) Anyways... I forgot what I was saying. ;-) *

The Eowyn Challenge

No... Not the challenge to exercise through Middle Earth, not the challenge to bribe Tolkienites into healthy lifestyles. Though I have indulged in that Eowyn Challenge, today mine is different. Do you remember this dialogue from the film?

Aragorn! I'm to be sent with the women into the caves.

That is an honorable charge.

To mind the children, to find food and bedding when the men return. What renown is there in that?

My lady, the time may come for valor without renown. Who then will your people look to in the last defenses?

Since my introduction to Lord of the Rings, I have always felt a keen empathy with Eowyn. As the years pass, I discover more and more similarities between the two of us that bind my heart closer to hers. We both love our families, we both block people out, we both dream of noble deeds, we both have gorgeous hair (in my dreams, at least), etc. Today, a new one has surfaced.

We both struggle with behind the scenes servanthood. Most people assume that this struggle comes from a desire to be celebrated and praised. This is definitely a factor; however, I know for myself, and I believe for Eowyn too, that this is not the whole of the picture.

As I've already mentioned here today, one of my closest friends is undergoing serious surgery in a city an hour's drive away. This girl is so loved and cherished, many have flocked to the hospital, all the while knowing that we will know nothing for a while. They just want to be there to support the family, to support one another, to be right there in the thick of it. But, I cannot be there. There are tasks at home that must be accomplished, and I have been left responsible for them.

As I go about the mundane chores, I think of how much greater and nobler sitting nervously at the hospital would be. I consider the anxious thrill I could experience there as I try to keep my cool and comfort others. I wish I could be there to hear the news immediately, to be there in the midst of the storm, rather than learning secondhand, sitting on the edge.

I think this is Eowyn's struggle as well. Sit in the caves, not knowing what fate befalls us? No! We'd rather be standing on the battlements, as the mud forms from the rain and the sweat and the blood. We'd rather be fighting with all our might, even if it means exhaustion, confusion, and death. We'd rather join hands with our comrades and brave the gruesome sights, sounds, and smells of battle. Anything but being forced to sit in the caves, alone, waiting to learn what everyone else already knows.

In my sinfulness, I could curl up on the couch and mourn over the cruelness of my lot, to be left at home, yet again, to clean and cook and wash and wait. But, by God's grace, I turn down the seductive invitation to a pity-party. Instead I will, like Eowyn, bind up my hair and fold up my sleeves. I will set to work and complete each task, however small and mundane with excellence and precision.

I know that I am called to each task for a purpose. As Aragorn reminds Eowyn, working on the home-front is no less honorable than charging on the battlefield. After all, the most terrifying and ferocious battle is being fought here where the greatest enemy challenges me, in the very depths of my soul.

An Untitled Poem

Sterile:

Nothing but sterling bars

and pearly tile

gleaming in stringent light.

Looking down,

my eyes stare back at me.

Clear:

No more cigarette smoke

or dusty air

choking my lungs and

dirtying my

face. No cloud of smog.

Silent:

No moan for help,

plea for food,

giggle for joy,

just dozens of Chinese baby eyes

stare back at me.

Orphan:

Nothing, no one to love,

but busy nannies

and the hope for American

mommies.

So their eyes stare over

the ocean at us.

Dreamer

(George Dunlop Leslie, Roses)

Unashamedly, I admit to being a hopeless dreamer. I enjoy creating worlds and friends in spare moments. I am often found gazing out windows or at the ground, for I've flittered off to a different time and place. Sometimes, I'll even dream up conversations, surroundings, and histories for my own, real life acquaintances. Few people I meet travel through my mind without me inventing some silly or serious fantasy about them. (Have I scared anyone yet? ;-) ). I love being a dreamer... most of the time.

Then there are days, like today, when my dreams are shattered. Perhaps shattered is too strong a word -- scratched, marred. Actually, the accurate description is that I recognize what my dreams truly are: dreams, nothing more.

*Before going on, at the risk of implying too much, I want to make this clear: I do not currently have or desire a romantic attachment to the subject I here describe. In the flirtatious and presumptuous society we live in, women describing men in admirable lights or their admiration for them is highly flammable.*

I know a young man who is charming, witty, and down-to-earth, yet at the same time he is thoughtful, deep, and intimidating. All who know him respect and adore him. When my thoughts strayed to him, I didn't need to create admirable qualities for him. Granted, plenty of enhancing and assuming occurred, something along the lines of, "Well, he's so this, so he must be that. And he associates with them, so he probably thinks that." I fitted him out and plopped him up on a white charger then stood by to admire my picture. My world seemed a more beautiful and nobler place because he dwelt in it.

But, armor rusts and knights fall. I overheard some gossip about him today, and the stories that issued from one clucking mouth to the other did not line up with my dreams. A principle I dreamed he had and a practice I dreamed he hadn't were, according to the latest, totally reversed. He didn't grossly sin or commit an inconsistency that could justify my abhorrence, but his real lifestyle failed to match my golden creation. Down he plunged.

After consideration, I recognize that his actions were far less surprising than my response to their discovery. I felt disappointed, frightened, and even betrayed. Why? Is he not allowed to be who he is? Why must he fit my mould? He doesn't have to. That is the answer. We all know that humans are sinful and will never live up to the holy standard. Indeed, my personal standards are far from perfect, so fantasizing that others hold the same ones and then feeling scandalized when I find that they do not only brings about harm.

My dreams are nothing more. They are not reality, but sometimes I wish they were.

Sometimes it really hurts to be a dreamer.

Lest We Forget

We may look on in awe at the beauty and serenity of North Florida,

but did they as the boom of cannon and stench of smoke invaded its tranquility?

We may halt and smile for spectators' cameras,

but how could he smile when every moment might be his last?

She may lark about and climb oaks to her heart's content,

but would she feel so young bearing burdens no child should bear?

This is why we don the blue and the grey. This is why we reenact -- "Lest We Forget."

An Eulogy and Update

Between the season's festivities and approaching deadlines, this dear blog has been neglected of late. Hopefully I'll be able to carve out some time for posting in the coming weeks. For now, however, enjoy a little poem that my darling sister, Katie, penned:

The Eulogy

Bunbury, my fellow, once so jolly,

Your death makes me melancholy.

You were to me a fantastic mate.

I'm sorry combustion was your fate.

Whenever I needed an excuse,

No matter the matter you I could use.

You had once pneumonia, twice depression,

But thrice my sympathy made a fine impression.

And now, what shall your chap Algy do,

Since you can be no longer my impromptu?

No friend could ever have been as faithful.

Your timing always proved impeccable.

Here I stand at your graveside,

Shamefully and remarkably teary-eyed,

For now what, oh what, will I do,

When I'm faced with things I don't want to do?

Ode to Bunbury, now deceased,

May you forever rest in peace!

If you aren't familiar with the inspiration for this poem, you need to pick up a copy of Oscar Wilde's The Importance of Being Earnest from your library. The play is absolutely hysterical and thoroughly British -- a perfect combination! ;)

By the way, Katie did have surgery. Her cyst is gone, and she's now a bionic woman! ;) This past week, two weeks after surgery, my bling-loving girl has begun walking on only two legs rather than three... The crutches strangely resembling flamingo legs have been stored in the attic!

The only thought that comes to mind in all these circumstances is this:

Praise God from whom all blessings flow. Praise Him all creatures here below. Praise Him above, ye heavenly hosts. Praise Father, Son, and Holy Ghost. Forever and ever, Amen!

Currently I Am

loving this and this,

beautiful, inspiring videos featuring some of my favorite

ladies and gentlemen,

practicing this song,

All the Better for Her from the Sense and Sensibility soundtrack,

and rejoicing in this:

"Tomorrow is always fresh with no mistakes in it." -Anne Shirley

Oh, the rich, rich joys of period dramas!

Earthly World

"I have done no harm. But I remember now I am in this earthly world; where, to do harm, is often laudable: to do good, sometime, accounted dangerous folly..." -Shakespeare's Macbeth

Ah, yes, my Lady Macduff! In this earthly world evil is praised and good disdained. Yet, wonder of wonders, this earthly world is not our home; indeed, it is merely a temporary lodging! Praises be to the one who has given us hope of a perfect haven to spend eternity in!