Screams in the Dark

This weekend I went to see Bella the movie at the indie theater. Great film. I cried happy tears. A little Christiany-idealistic, but beautiful, nonetheless. It won loads of awards. Just go see it. (There's my paltry movie review of the day.)

I had the best parking spot in town: about three steps outside the box office. I locked up the bike and felt like I was royalty. The trick was, after a post-film Mexican feast, I had a short ride by bike to Amy's house. And it was dark.

[Note to Mama: it is very, very rare that I ride at night. And I have a nice flashing red light that I wear to alert drivers, along with a headlight!]

I took off for Los Robles, and was doing just great in the bike lane, chugging along at a good speed. My eyes were concentrating on the stoplight up ahead. Out of nowhere this white Suburban pulls up beside me, and an (assumedly drunk, or just foolish) boy shrieks/screams at me from his window. They drove off, laughing. It took me 15 seconds to process that they were just trying to startle me, maybe to make me fall. (Not so funny.)

The best part was, though, I didn't even flinch. I was a little startled, but I just sort of rolled my eyes in my head. I was too focused on the stoplight up ahead to turn to the right or the left. (Thankfully.)

The whole story makes me think of the struggle of following Jesus, and Jesus alone. My bike ride seems to call it a universal truth that we naturally go towards wherever our eyes are fixed. Even when silly people emerge and come screaming in our ears. And even when we're telling silly lies to ourselves.

May we fix ourselves, all over again, on the Light that shines in the dark. Let's silence the outer (or inner) noise.

(Screaming pepper photo by 7E55E-BRN)

The Majors: God's Theater

I've been reading through the major and minor prophets since summertime. I have some observations on the bigguns, the majors. I've scribbled them in my journal. (Feel free to add or subtract.)

What I Notice in Isaiah, Jeremiah, and Ezekiel:

1. God is willing to put the prophets on a stage and write them rated-R scripts in order to get the audience's attention.
2. Obedience ushers in life and rescue.
3. The prophet boys experienced some measure of astral-travel in their mystic encounters with God.
4. Exile was a gift of mercy to Israel.
5. God empowers sign, symbol, and metaphor.
6. The role of prophet includes being both a Watchperson and a Warner in order to persuade the people to turn towards God.
7. God has a special concern for his holiness being shown to the nations.
8. There is so much grace in God's wrath, particularly in his relenting.
9. God really likes palm trees as decorations!
10. God allows us to reap what we sow.
11. More often than not, God chooses to speak through some artistic devices or metaphor. I like that.

(Theater photo by Abbyladybug.)

Just as Far as the Lighthouse, Girl

Yesterday I was walking up the stoney streets of Cascais, on my way to run along my most favorite path in the globe: from Boca do Inferno (lit. "mouth of hell") to Guincho beach, overlooking the Atlantic. I was intercepted by a phone call that my presence was requested in Sao Joao for Indian food in 30 minutes. Now, this was a dilemma.

This Indian restaurant was the spot of nearly every celebratory meal eaten outside of my apartment for three years. The food is good. Outlandishly good, in fact. But holy curry, man, I had planned my whole day around this run because, well, it is my favorite spot in the world. (And I am not prone to throwing superlatives into the air. My most indeterminate crush of all time once said, "It is very difficult to impress Jenelle.")

These dear friends wanted to eat in 30 minutes, so I decided to scrap the Boca-run, and just run along the boardwalk to Sao Joao. (My 2nd favorite path.) But I'd forgotten that I am not the woman I used to be and have fallen a bit out of shape. Needless to say, I took some elegant "stretching breaks" as I went, but made it safely back to my old hometown, and the dinner date. I imagined that Sao Joao's "Cucina Indiana" was the most excellent of finish lines.

Along the way, I impressed myself by sending text messages from my cell phone while running. I also (literally) ran into Marco Santos--with the cool new tattoo--whom I had not seen in a year, and whom did not know I was in town. Funny.

Well, tonight I got my Guincho run. And I told myself I'd run "just as far as the lighthouse," and then turn back. I am a sucker for overused, tired metaphors that stretch out like my legs after running. While I'm mid-jaunt I make up half-haikus in my mind and feel far too profound. Just as far as the lighthouse? I'll let you draw this one out.

(Lisboa Lighthouse photo by Oumupo.)

Home, a Definition; or Home is Where the Obedie Dances

I'm writing from London Heathrow, en route to Lisbon, and then on to Christian Associates' annual staff conference. I can't wait to return to Portugal. I have that excited/exhausted nausea from skipping across time zones during the night. I feel a bit like a little girl on those groggy mornings when I knew I was going over to play at a friend's house that afternoon, and so awoke too early on account of happy nerves. My body is happily confused with an excited lack of sleep.

On the flight over from Baltimore, my next door seat neighbor asked me whether I was going home, or going on vacation. I said I didn't quite know how to answer his nice question. I lived in Portugal for a little over three years, so it is like going home. But then again, I just left home, and already miss my family. These home questions are strange. (TCKs know so well.)

Not long ago, someone much smarter than I said that we're only really "at home" when we've pitched a tent in the center of obedience. I think that might be the most accurate definition of "home" that I've ever heard. What do you think? I've always liked the image of our bodies as tents. I think the metaphor stretches out nicely.

(Photo of Warwick Castle by Jedi58)

Our Stories Are Currency

I've spent the last few days in upstate New York with family. My parents met in this town at age 17. The story goes that Dad fell in love when he first watched Mama walk out of Five Corners Pizzeria.

But an amazing thing happened when they married: their two Italian families really became one. It is extraordinary the way these two families enjoy each other.

Last week, my Mama's niece graduated high school. She invited my Dad's parents to the party. This week, my Mama's sister had a small anniversary party, but she happily invited my Dad's parents, too. We're all family. "In-laws" need not apply.

I think the way my relatives welcome one another is a nice metaphor for how God's Family should work.

Since I only get to visit my family here about once a year, this week I've been determined to write it all down. I spent a lot of free-time scribbling down stories from my Grandma Dee-Dee, my Great Uncle Chuck and Great Aunt Mary, and my Poppie Collamer. Their words and stories are a great currency spilled out in ink. I have many many words saved onto the computer, now, and I'm hoping to stretch them into mini-memoirs for each of them.

I wonder why I did not do this sort of thing far sooner.

Poppie Collamer (aka. Poppie-in-the-kettle in my previous post) turns 80 today! He has taught me so much about the value of living simply and loving generously.

("Write Me" photo by SuperMamacita.)

"Little girl, I say to you, get up"

Last night I dreamt that I was in a European square near a riverfront. There were loads of people around and live musicians playing happy music. I was sitting down, looking bored, and just trying to blend into the scenery. All of a sudden, Arianna emerged, and she insisted that I get up and dance. I fussed and moaned (I'm really not a hot dancer), but she persisted that I was missing something in the music. She pulled me along and led me in a ballroom dance all around. We even danced up and down big European steps that led from the square. I was a sight!

At times I got lazy and she had to ask me to stop dragging my feet and to please just follow her. I had no idea what I was doing with my feet, but I was giggling a lot. When the music stopped, we were down near the river's edge. We hugged and I laughed.

I woke up feeling so happy and assured. There's so much going on in my life right now that I'm not sure where to step forward first. I guess I'm feeling like the Nelly that was sitting down bored in the square, paralyzed with uncertainty. It seems that last night Jesus showed up in my dream in the form of my dear new friend, Arianna, to encourage me up to dance, and to please not be afraid. I just need to hang on to him while we he leads and we listen to the music. And then we'll hug and I'll laugh.

(Photo by Carolink)

A School House

I had a pleasant trip up north to see Mates of State. Wish I could've encouraged the crowd at Messiah College to bounce a little more, though. (Maybe they think Jesus doesn't dance. I dunno.) Turns out the show was a benefit for Invisible Children in Uganda. That made me happy.

Since I was in Baltimore this afternoon I had the chance see my longtime friend, Kristin. It was so nice to hold her handsome newborn baby, Brendan. Kristin was a mentor and older sister to me all throughout college. It worked out fine that she was in grad school for counseling all the while I was the wreck of the Titanic and needed her to counsel me. Kris is one of the most excellent listeners on the planet. She taught me how to not be such a "strong girl," and to learn how to feel all over again. It's nice to hold her babies now that she's all grown up.

I got pretty teary tonight as I asked Jesus to bless Kristin real good. I realized all at once how much of her I've brought with me into my friendships. She left me a path of clear footprints to try to follow, particularly in the shape of learning to listen to people, and in some basic counseling skills.

Friendships are such nice school houses to sit in. The notes on the chalkboard get written all over our manners and memories, sometimes without us even noticing.

(Photo: "Following")

If Prayer is Like Boxing

There are moments when I see prayer as a restful thing. There are other seasons where it feels like I am struggling against things unseen, and it requires me to focus like an athlete. I've felt like that in the last week or two. I'm grateful for the rest, but I'm also grateful for the wrestling. The sweat reminds me I'm alive. Jesus sweat blood once when he prayed. Jacob busted his hip. Now that's struggle.

On Thursday I was running and praying at the gym. Among many other things, I talked to Jesus about the the husband-man I'd like to have one day. As I was staring toward the big red punching bag at the other end of the gym, I found a nice metaphor. Yes. I'd like this guy of mine to be tough in prayer like an experienced boxer. I want to learn new movements of prayer next to him: throwing punches at the evil one, wrestling, waiting on God. It will be good for me to develop spiritual muscles in areas that were once just baby fat.

But in the meantime, I am trying to learn everything I can from whomever seems to have been in the ring a bit longer than me.

I watched one guy attack the red punching bag tirelessly, like he really knew what he was doing: five right hooks, five left hooks, five one-two's, five body-punches. He looked like he was having so much fun. I tried to mentally track his routine so that I could do it, too. (And so my metaphor grows.)

Today after my workout I put on the black Everlast gloves and threw a few right and left hooks at the punching bag. The one-two's tired me out. But oh! it was more fun than I can explain.

(Photo "Jesus is Strong" by Szen Volta.)

Soy Scum Meditations

I like hot soy milk. With cinnamon and nutmeg, please. I call it "Christmas in a Cup." Tonight I put the soy milk on the stove, and then forgot about it. I came back to soy scum. Lots of it. As I cleaned out the pan and made shriveled-faces at it, I laughed to myself, "There must be a deep spiritual metaphor here in this soy scum."

I'm not sure there is a deep metaphor. (If you find one, throw it at me.) But I am sure of this: I tend to put pans on the oven and then forget about them. I start things and then forget about them. I adore new projects. I go crazy with them. My creative juice gets splattered around everywhere. This is oftentimes my pattern:

1. Think of a wild new project to work on...start it with engines running...even if I stay up all night.
2. Forget to finish the project
or (worse)
2.5 I get bored with it.
3. So, hooray! I find a new project altogether!
4. Wash, Rinse, Repeat step #1.

I often have to guilt myself into finishing things, unless I have some hard-pressed deadline given to me from someone with quasi-authority.

Alas. I sip my seltzer water and wonder how to become a woman of more follow-through.

Cellophane-Wrapped Tongues

I want to be more honest. Not just on this blog, but in real-time, too. I like to think I'm awfully honest. But, lately I feel like I've put bars in front of my words. Maybe it's because I'm living in such transition. Or maybe because I'm an approval-suck. It's both/and, I'm sure.

A few years ago, I started scribbling about the lack of bare naked honesty I've experienced in Christian-circles. Like most of the songs I write, I never finished it. It is an indictment of my own laziness as well as the sub-culture of sugar-coated words that we tend to welcome in the Church. I'd like to break the bars of both.

In a dream last night, my tongue was wrapped (delicately) in cellophane. Very strange, it was. I was in a room of thousands, but they all thought me fine. Through numerous conversations, no one seem to notice that there were layers upon layers of thin clear plastic jacketing my tongue. Under their quick glancing inspections, it seemed red and fleshy. It was visible, at least.

"Oh now, your tongue looks just like our's, dear."

I too quickly believed them. In the eternity-seconds of dreams, I instantly learned how to talk through layers of thinned plastic.

They patted me on the back. Someone quickly handed me a sugary-drink as we held our glasses high, and (all too awkwardly) toasted, "God bless us, every one."