So...thoughts?

“So?” I stared across the table, happily anticipating cheese biscuits and having decided on which salad to order, and waited for Friend to reply. When she didn’t, I asked, “Thoughts?”

She sat on my right at services this morning and I’d wondered what she thought, what she needed, what I might do to help her find it. I keep realizing it’s not up to me – has very, very little to do with me at all. But I talk to God and I talk to Friend. It seems if there’s something that needs to be said, I could offer a nudge from either party if given enough information. It’s not a completely unfamiliar position historically, though I've never found myself very good at it. But I’m careful and thoughtful and at what is likely my most loving and accepting when talking to people in conversations where I’ve actively asked God to listen in. To help me out. Offer some words or ideas or questions that might be right.

I was surprised when she asked if she could join me at church. I cried last night when trying to explain that to her in a conversation that included more tears from me than any outside my therapist’s office in recent memory.

“I didn’t ask for it.” I finally told her. “For you to want to come to church. I just asked Him to keep following you around. To love you and help you whether you asked or not.”

The recurring thought for me – the one that made me continue to look upward for answers instead of inward – is that I’m not such a good Christian. The joy in life, the loving, peaceful aura, the stability to handle all around me… Um, I don’t do that. Have that. I’m not that.

I have the capacity for tremendous amounts of love and happiness – I don’t always tap into it. I’m oblivious to some people in need and willfully ignore others when I don’t see a way to help. I rarely choose to suffer next to someone just to keep him company, though I certain could do it on nearly any day.

That morning, I spent some time praying for a man I’d noticed in the hallway of the hospital. He was lying supine on a gurney, family clustered around him, waiting to be called into one of the exam rooms as people passed by him in the hallway that leads to the rest of the hospital on the first floor. I saw him as I headed to a meeting on the south end of campus – he was squirming slightly in discomfort, trying to respond to the attempts at conversation his family members made. When I returned to head north about 30 minutes later, he was still. His forearm was resting over his eyes and all but a single woman remained by his side as the rest found seats in the hallway.

I said a prayer – felt the tug in my heart and knew it to be a call to God. Sympathy and fear and hope warred inside and I asked that He take care of them. Settle around the man and lessen the pain while he waited. Offer peace to the family whose faces had drawn tight with worry and impatience. Give the medical staff quick minds and gentle hands and good hearts as they worked to fix problems they hadn’t caused and may not understand.

My point is that I’m not incapable. Sometimes I see. I notice and I pray. But I walk through that hospital a good deal – I work on a medical campus, after all, and see my share of sick people. And even if I don’t come in contact with them, it’s no secret as to what happens in that tall structure with all the windows. I know why those people are waiting in the lobby. I’m aware – even as I try mightily to ignore it some days – of why that little boy is being pulled around in a wagon while he waits for ice cream in line ahead of me.

I read once that waiting can be a blessing. Those moments stuck in traffic or standing in line at a store can be spent praying. About anything. For the people located around you in your current snafu. For family and friends. For yourself or for the world at large. If you take those moments, talk to God, try to listen for what you should be doing next, then the time is a gift.

I don’t do that either. I despise waiting with a white-hot passion. My overall frustration with God is in waiting. If He’s going to make situations OK, why let us be so scared and worried for so long? If He’s going to give me someone to love, why not now? And if He’s not going to provide a man in my life, may I please stop wanting one so badly? I don’t use the downtime to gently reflect. To offer prayers. To stop and consider my motives and desires.

“Honestly!” I say with increasing volume if I’m alone and in my head if located within a crowd, “Just get out of my way! This is taking too long! The opposite of efficiency! Move, move, move!”

I'm vindictive and hateful sometimes. I succumbed to a depression that was deep and dark and just a touch ridiculous. I'm lazy more often than not.

I don’t know enough Bible verses, though I can sing Love is Like a Magic Penny for you if you’d like. I get distracted when I pray. I ignore God a shameful amount. I sin and I question and I have no idea what I’m doing sometimes. As far as friends to sit next to in church go? I’m painfully inadequate. I often do it wrong – this whole Christian thing.

“I can’t connect to it.” I offered of my own experience in church that morning. “I’m supposed to feel it in my chest – the emotion that tells me I’m experiencing church like I want to. And I don’t, really. I just can’t get to it right now for some reason. I don’t think I would have come to church had I not wanted to be sure you had the opportunity to come with me if you didn’t change your mind.”

I can, however, connect with Friend and with God when I talk about her. I’m grateful to be around – whatever she decides or feels or says. The truth is that it very well might help me more than anyone else. The thought toward what believing should mean in my life and my actions. So, thanks. To both of you.

Oh, and do let me know if I can help.

So, hello.

“So, hello.” I said, deciding that I should be praying out loud. I decided against listening to my audiobook on prayer and just practice my own method instead. I noticed I’ve avoided talking to God for any extended period of time. While I think it would be better for me to sit and focus with no outside distractions, sharing my commute with Him seemed better than nothing. So I put on piano hymns and tried to talk. Instead I made faces and attempted some reasonable amount of focus until I started to speak.

“I don’t know what to say.” I admitted. “I’m not sure if I’m angry at you or hopeless or tired or just going through a down time. I’m OK – I hope You can see that. I’m not nearly as bad as I was. But… I don’t know. I just don’t take time to talk to You. And now it’s like when you have friend and you haven’t seen her in a long time and have to spend so much time catching up on the background that you don’t get to converse over any fun topics. Though You know what’s been going on. So I guess I could just talk. About…something.”

“I thought You’d take Friend’s mother.” I admitted when I stopped at a red light. “All those times I asked for you to let the treatment work, to be with Friend as she waited for news… I thought you’d hurt that family and have people say it was for the best.” I shook my head. “I’m glad you didn’t. Thank you for letting her stay. For showing me that sometimes what we ask for is the right thing – the endpoint you want as well.”

I considered for another moment. “I want to fall in love. Thinking that I don’t get that makes me sad. And annoyed that You’re withholding it. Dr. Counselor says I should ask for the strength to be better so that I’m ready when my partner comes along. And that I should pray he is growing ready for me. So, yes. I’d like that. Please. I’d like You to pick someone out for me and lead me toward him. Teach me what I need to know beforehand and give me the patience to learn it. But I’m afraid you’re going to say no. That I’m asking for something that you have no intention of giving.”

I drove in silence for a little while – breathing deeply, listening to the piano play through my car speakers attached to my iPod, trying to hear some response. “It’s strange.” I offered moments later. “I know – intellectually, anyway – that You’re watching. That You know. That in the end, life works out. Events that seemed trivial or awful somehow coalesce into something good – nudging me down the right path so that I eventually see how I learned and grew over time. I know things work out. I know You love me and want me to be happy. I do know. I just don’t always remember.”

Having established that fact in my mind, I just started to talk. I began with people online – blogs I read, prayers I think are needed – some of petition, some of gratitude, some of simple conversation, telling stories and laughing or thinking. Then I drifted slowly into family members and friends, asking for guidance and love and grace. “I’m strong enough now,” I told Him. “If You need me, here I am.”

As I made my way quickly toward work, I found myself just listing names. Aunt, Uncle, Cousin and her husband, Older Cousin and her husband. Little Cousin and Other Little Cousin. Little One.

“I love her most of all.” I confided with a smile. “I think she’s growing up so wonderfully. She talks so much and watches her movies – the ones I sent got there yesterday. She’s so bright and strong and funny. Well, You know. You know her.” And I lapsed again into content silence, letting myself think and hoping God spoke somehow. Then I frowned with a realization.

I’m Little One’s Godmother. And I haven’t ever prayed with her. Told her Bible stories. Watched a Christian cartoon with her. I don’t know if Mom prays with her while she rocks in the chair before bedtime. Or if Brother and Brother’s wife talk to her about the concepts after church. She understands enough that we could introduce her to God, I know. I’m not sure how to go about that exactly, but God reminded me that it’s a priority today. It’s a job for which I’ve always been profoundly grateful – from the moment Brother asked me to serve as a Godparent, I was honored. I need to do a better job. And I will.

Then I thought of Friend, talked about some of her concerns, prayed over them. Admitted I don’t know the answers – I just understand some of the problems quite well. Others I can only guess at, but I don’t know how to help other than ask Someone I know to do some work on it. To guide me, to watch over Friend, to be with all of us – celebrate when we’re happy, soothe when we’re angry, comfort when we’re scared and sad.

“It’s hard here,” I admitted. “For all of us sometimes. I just wish it was more straightforward. Easier. That I didn’t worry over Friend because I know You’ll take care of her. That hearing war news didn't make my stomach hurt. That I trusted on some profound level that it’s all working toward a good place.”

I merged into the right lane of traffic to exit my interstate and get on the bypass. I pulled in behind a familiar car and cocked my head. How strange would it be if I followed Friend to work just as I’d been talking about her? But there were still many cars speeding about, so I didn’t put much thought into the fact that it might be her. But she moved from one lane to another and the shift was quicker than average. “That car drives like Friend’s.” I mused, deciding it really might be her.

I became more certain as we continued to move toward campus. I couldn’t see her all the time – traffic separated us at some points and large trucks sometimes blocked my view of her little car completely. But I didn’t panic – I knew where she was going and happened to be going there myself. I know her well enough to predict where she’ll park in the lot. I checked the time and realized that she was running on her normal schedule while I was getting in a bit later than I’d wanted.

I got a bit weepy when I thought about God. “She may not even know I’m here.” I told Him. “Just following along after her for these few minutes. Ready to stop and help if needed, pleased that traffic is moving swiftly for her, hoping she has a good day and slept well last night.”

God isn’t a hovering parent. I think sometimes He follows me silently, just watching and waiting for me to realize I need help and guidance. Then He nudges in certain directions, introduces me to the right people at the right times and removes opportunities that – while incredibly tempting – just aren’t right. He’s a strong presence – moving along at whatever pace I need, sometimes tugging me along when I’m too weak to continue, other times offering support when I’m too tired to travel on my own. It’s the times like today – when I’m driving along and everything is fine (if a little boring or vaguely unsettling) and I don’t even glance in my rearview mirror to see if He’s back there. So He waits until the morning I decide to spend some time talking and sits through the lists of names, the general requests, the honest thoughts of why I can’t get serious about spiritual growth.

I parked one spot away from Friend and got out of my car as she paused to wait for me.

“How unlikely is that?!” I offered cheerfully. “That I ended up following you all the way to work?”

“As unlikely as me screwing up the same experiment different ways every time I do it?” She responded.

I smiled then told her that I’d been praying. Just talking – halting and awkward at first, then making some progress as I made my way to work. “I was praying about you and then I ended up right behind your car.” I said, thinking it was a minor miracle and some indication that God wanted me to be sure He was listening. That He knew. That He heard.

“I saw you way back there.” She said and I nodded.

“I saw you as soon as you were merging from the entrance ramp.” I offered.

The rest of the day was frustrating and productive depending on the moment. I got bad news on funding a small part of Project M and tried to fill out still more paperwork when I thought I was finished. I was wildly irritated so I took a walk to turn in more paperwork around campus. I returned to make a presentation at meeting then ran an experiment in the afternoon. I listened to music and swore at traffic on the way home, oblivious to God or anything He wanted to tell me.

I find it tremendously moving that He was there anyway. Following along, watching protectively, yet waiting until I chose to notice Him. He knows where I’m going though. Is familiar enough with how my mind works that He can predict the route I’ll take to get there – the things I’ll see and people I’ll meet around the way. That He chooses to join me is miraculous. That I rarely acknowledge Him is depressing. But I heard Him this morning – if only for a few spare moments, I got it. I felt loved and appreciated even as He gave me an idea of the work I have yet to do.

“Thank you.” I just said. He deserved it and sometimes it helps me to say it out loud.

Coffee & Wine

“Thank you.” I sniffled, reaching for the napkin she removed from under her cup of coffee.

“That was under my drink.” She apologized. “I can go get you a clean one.” I regained my composure, wiped away a stray tear from each eye and shook my head. Aimed a smile at my new pastor – a woman I like and respect a tremendous amount.

“The plan,” I told her, “was not to reveal how very messed up I am right now. I just wanted to find out about Bible studies and Sunday School classes.” I smiled sheepishly and ducked my head, knowing I should probably feel embarrassed but instead basking in a strange sort of comfort.

The tears didn’t come from revealing the beginning of the end, though my defense debacle came spilling out with great detail and remembered misery. She had told me a story of her son and his own graduate studies and when presented with a secret, I immediately reciprocate. I love getting to know people and will do all I can to create a comfortable yet intimate environment. So tell me something that not everyone knows and I’m wide open.

Which led, in this instance, to a two hour conversation in a Starbucks with soaring wooden ceilings with exposed beams, soothing dark colors and the aroma of coffee. Coffee – for me – will forever be associated with early mornings of childhood. Hearing my parents conversing softly in the living room as I rested at the other end of the hall, knowing it would soon be time to get up and brush my teeth, but not quite yet. For now, I could drift between dreams and the coming day, feeling warm and loved and safe. Coffee still soothes me and Starbucks provided an environment that was strangely right for both introductions and personal stories.

The tears weren’t brought about by stories of a friend lost – to a car accident or to some strange set of circumstances tinged by an emotional undercurrent so intense I find myself writing a novel to try to explain it to myself. I instead wept over the lizard. Told her of my former pastor and the peaches he wanted so desperately after mere hours of fasting. How he advised that that energy – that need – should be focused on God. Just for a little while. Just to see how it felt, evaluate our secular desires, allow a bit of time to cleanse our souls.

“I knew I was supposed to hear it.” I confessed to Pastor last Thursday morning. “That God was warning me – trying to guide me in the right direction. I knew, I considered it very carefully, then I ignored it. Made a conscious decision to disobey. And that’s not like me – it really isn’t. I generally do what I’m told.” I shook my head, shame washing over me, tinged with regret.

“I… I didn’t think I’d find anyone to love – to keep as my very own. I still don’t. And this man in particular… I just loved him so much. Had this incredible certainty that I could love him regardless of what I discovered as we grew closer. And I needed to be loved – so desperately wanted someone to see me, hear my secrets, understand my fears – and love me anyway. And I know God can do that, but I wanted a partner! I wanted him.” I gestured to the room around us – people I could see and touch and hear. “Not Him.” With a wave of my hand upward, I blinked back tears – the guilt so overwhelming that I couldn’t continue.

After I wiped my eyes, she regarded me kindly. Allowed a few tears of her own. We’d talked for a long time already – family dynamics, how it feels to be a professional female in a work environment dominated by men, cancer and sickness, war and death, the difference between hope and optimism, how one relates to this higher power in which I believe.

“Can you forgive yourself?”

I shrugged and looked away. “I don’t know. I haven’t so far.”

“You know,” she said softly, reaching to touch my hand, “that this… willful defiance bothers you more than it bothers God.” After a pause when I didn’t reply, she continued.

“You know Luke 15.” She said. “Let’s talk about the prodigal son for a minute. He did a bad thing – squandered all his father had given him, lived badly, made poor decisions. And yet when he came home – before he had a chance to apologize or repent to his father – he was welcomed joyfully. When he tries to ask for what he deserves rather than to reclaim his place in the family, his father brushes that aside. He doesn’t need to hear it. The important part – the only part that really matters – is that you came home. You needed to return and you found your way back. God is joyful in that. He delights in your return.”

So I cried again, smoothing the crumpled napkin so I could dab at my eyes once more.

“I turned away.” I whispered. “I wanted to be loved so badly. I didn’t want to be alone anymore. So I didn’t trust… couldn’t be grateful and patient in the present moment… I think I deserved all those bad things.” I told her softly.

She stopped to think. I’ve rarely come across someone who listened that well – whose focus on my words was so complete that she truly needed a moment to gather her thoughts to reply. Though I’ve been trained in counseling basics – know that listening is the critical part – I’m rarely good at it.

“Some would disagree with me.” She warned. “But I think there’s Biblical support for shaking your fist at God. Especially in the Psalms. There are problems in life that I think should enrage us. When we rail against something cruel or unfair. Children get cancer or are abused – thinking about that makes me so angry. So confused at what God could be thinking! I think it’s OK to be angry and disappointed that God allowed bad things to happen to you.”

“It’s not that the world is bad.” I thought out loud. “It’s that people I trusted – people I thought I knew and loved – disappointed me. I didn’t matter enough. Wasn't smart or talented enough. Not loving or interesting or pretty or compelling enough.”

“You’re still hurt.” She recognized. “That’s OK. You will heal.” I nodded in agreement – it’s started, but try as I might to rush the process, it just takes time. I’m working through it.

“I think,” she continued carefully, “that – for me – it’s better to be open and angry with God than it is to withdraw.”

“That’s what I do. With everyone, actually. When I’m hurt, I retreat into this safe little shell and just lash out occasionally. Make noise so people know I’m still there – still in pain – but refuse to let much touch me.”

She offered more advice – we spent more time talking. She encouraged me to attend a Sunday School class, thought about people to include if she started a Bible study. She told stories and I offered comfort. Then we’d switch.

“What’s your book about?” She asked once, leaning forward with a smile.

And I stammered. Finally blushed and shook my head.

“That’s OK.” She said.

“It’s silly.” I offered. “I just want to understand myself a little more. How I ended up here – why I made certain decisions, the driving force behind my choices, how I can avoid the same mistakes again. So by fictionalizing it, I might be able to be more objective. Divorce myself from the personal pain and hope and see it for what it was. To see me for who I was.”

“I don’t think you’re messed up at all.” She said before we left. “I’m glad you shared all this with me – let me know you. I see health as honestly acknowledging where you are, seeing where you hope to be, and taking steps to get there. The medication, the therapy, coming to talk to me – I think it’s all progress. You should feel good about that.”

I thought about it as I headed to work. I keep seeking help – reaching out tentatively and hoping someone yanks me toward where I need to go – but then I retreat again. Huddle into isolated safety so I can berate myself for bad decisions, look around fearfully for someone who seems safe and wonderful but who will eventually hurt me, pull away from God because I don’t deserve Him.

“God isn’t angry at me.” I said experimentally as I waited at a red light. “He’s happy I came home.” Then I paused to see how it felt. Frowned. “It seems like He’d be irritated at the very least.” I decided.

Then the thought appeared that I found a wonderful church – one that offered immediate comfort, a loving welcome and gentle lessons. I just spent hours with a woman who was smart and strong, who would include me in her prayers, who guided me toward a loving God who offered joy at my presence. Would someone angry have offered Pastor to me?

In light of the fact that I decided He would not, it seems I would have been eager to attend services yesterday. I wasn’t. I’m not sure why – there’s still this urge to clutch at what went wrong rather than to make confident strides toward what might go right in the future. I really want to keep writing this book – I have ideas on why, but I’m not positive. I doubt it will be something I have tremendous pride in when it’s finished. I’m hesitant to allow new people in my life – the chances that they’ll someday hurt me after gaining my trust and affection is terrifying. The thought that our time here is finite – the chances we are awarded are limited – leaves me paralyzed sometimes. I'd often rather do nothing than make another mistake.

Services yesterday centered around the first miracle Jesus performed. Children’s time was on the outward focus of the Lord. “He didn’t turn paper to gold to make himself rich. So he could buy all the things he wanted in the world. Instead he turned water to wine. Healed the sick. Forgave the sinners. We should try to help others – to love others – instead of thinking about what we want all the time.”

I’ve read John 2 again this morning. I’m a bit confused. Jesus seems reluctant to help – it’s not time, it’s not His problem. But He helps anyway – provides the best of wines when it seems there’s nothing at all left.

“Is your soul empty?” Pastor asked the congregation. “Do you feel as if there is nothing for you to drink, let alone offer to others? Trust that God will take what you have – as meager as it might be – and make something amazing. Not just for you, but for the world. The best is yet to come. The most coveted of wines isn’t offered at the beginning – it’s made at the end so that you can truly behold the glory of God.”

Baa!

Be the sheep, I advised as I drug myself down the hall, through a shower, and into the clothes I’d decided I would wear to the new church I was trying out. You like sheep. Focus on being a good little lamb. A shy sheep. A chic sheep, I decided, glancing down at my crisp gray pants, round toed kitten heels and putting on a pendent from Japan to match my black knit top.

“A slutty sheep, apparently.” I said after checking myself in the mirror and pulling at a shirt that was a big clingier than I remember.

I traded the black garment for a soft cardigan with a white undershirt. Black bra for white. Replaced the pretty flower necklace with my long, gold, add-a-bead chain. I debated changing my shoes and bag – navy would really be better with my blue sweater. But my only navy heels are open-toed. And how can I not have a blue bag? I have 6 shades of brown and no navy?

“Respectable.” I noted with a nod upon seeing my reflection again. “Now you go to church.” I demanded of myself, not unkindly but with some firmness since I’m flakey and sucky of late. “Nobody wants to know a sucky sheep.”

I arrived far too early – 9:35 for a 10:00 service. I waited in the car for 7 minutes, then headed into the pretty church. A 200 year old church in an 8 year old building, I calculated upon seeing the plaque. Impressive.

People smiled but failed to greet me upon my arrival. Presbyterians, I thought, with a small shake of my head. I’ve always considered them a tiny bit uppity and standoffish. Then again, I’m not all that friendly in the beginning either. Resolving to remain open to the service in the gorgeous sanctuary – soaring, wooden ceiling, soft blue carpeting and upholstery. I’ve seen better stained glass, but the lighting is nice. I offered tentative approval, and remembered the last church I auditioned.

I tried to remain peaceful and open there too. And hated every second of it. The large stone wall looked like it belonged in a lodge. I had no idea what was up with the people banging on drums before worship started. There were auditions for some talent show variant of American Idol. And if one more lady in a denim jumper with a lighthouse or redbird stitched on the front came up to sing a solo, I was going to crawl over the people sitting next to me in the pew and run out screaming. So I was reluctant to visit a different church – the last one made me feel like a minion of evil since I would never consider returning.

But upon viewing the bulletin, I sighed with relief. More praying than I’m used to, but I like that. Singing, but as a congregation or from the choir stationed up front in pretty white robes with green trim. No special performances. The pastor was a woman, I noted, trying to remember if I’ve ever heard a female preach. I don’t think I have.

She’s actually a lovely woman – she came to sit next to me before the service started. Introduced herself and asked about who I was, where I lived, where I’d been to church before. Amidst repeating my name multiple times and warning me that people would likely ask if they’d seen me there before, (“We don’t like to make people feel unimportant if we’ve forgotten them, so we get nervous and ask if you were here last week. Just in case.”), she said that there was no pressure. I was to go where God wanted me. Where I felt comfortable and right. But if they could answer any questions or provide a community of faith for me, they’d feel privileged to do so.

Then she introduced me to 4 different women, each of whom shook my hand or rubbed the shoulder of my soft sweater after asking if they’d met me last week because I looked familiar. They were kind – gentle smiles and warm greetings. Perhaps, I thought, the Presbyterian reserve mixed with the effusive Southern hospitality makes for an environment I like. So I settled in my chair (not a pew – I didn’t mind), viewed the screens overhead with narrowed eyes, then noted the PowerPoint backgrounds were pretty pictures. I might even put some of them in a header graphic for my blog, I mused. And it was rather nice having the hymns available and the responses printed somewhere other than the bulletin.

The choir is small, but strong. The children’s time was very sweet and well-populated. There were 5 or 6 times of prayer, but I found the pastor’s voice and slight Southern accent soothing and compelling. I listened – I felt peaceful – the world started to make sense.

She talked of Paul and this shipwrecks in Acts. She started the sermon by telling stories of traffic and detours. She doesn’t like being stopped on the interstate (Amen, says I – we have stuff in common!). She asked if we ever felt frustrated. That there was some path we should be following but couldn’t reach it (Yep). We didn’t understand why a detour was placed before us and the confusion, isolation and irritation were strong (Yes. Very strong. Confused. Isolated. Irritated. That’s me.). Paul wanted to go to Rome and was finally on his way. But then the ship wrecked. (So that sucked.) But he made it to shore and was gathering wood and got bit by a snake! (I prefer to think of it as a lizard personally, but I can make snake work.) Then the people thought he was a murderer since he must have deserved getting bit by the snake. (Sometimes you don’t deserve the lizard! I decided indignantly.)

Be grateful for the opportunities with which you’re faced. Be open to help others – when you struggle, you can gain empathy. Truly understand and care for people in situations similar to yours. Replace anxiety with joy. Focus. Pray. Know that there’s a reason for your current struggle and that you’ll find the path again. Detours don’t last forever.

Somewhere within the service – the sermon I liked, the songs I sang, the prayers I prayed (they say debts/debtors, not trespasses/trespass against us! I love debts/debtors!) – my stomach settled, the pressure in my head eased and there was peace.

I know, I thought softly, I’m a Presbyterian now. This is home.

So after saying hello to several more people, singing their little "Go with God" benediction song in my head, talking with Donna (she sat in front of me. Apologized for not speaking sooner, but she wasn’t sure if we’d met before) about my job and her family and my holiday plans, I walked to my car. My inner sheep let out a happy bleat – one of relief and joy and hope.

Being happy – overcoming this nasty urge to be depressed and offended and pissy – isn’t going to be immediate or easy. But this is one of the key steps for me. I’ll be there for services every Sunday I’m in town. I want to have coffee with the pastor to discuss Bible studies and service opportunities. I have a new chance to find a community of faith – one that prayed for people who are alone – who need support and love and encouragement.

They can support, love and encourage me. I need them, I think, and perhaps in attending there, I can offer that support, love and encouragement to others.

My inner sheep had a good morning.

On reluctance and faith

Honestly? I’m a bit embarrassed. I don’t really get self-conscious about what I write here. You’re free to read and think and comment freely. I don’t expect that everyone will like or respect what’s here and while I’d rather the anti-Katie people move along quietly, it’s perfectly OK to come every day so you can think about how you’re much more sane and competent than I am. I’m not exactly sure of the impression I’m making – I offer you a great deal more than I offer people offline. It’s a bit strange, but it’s how I work. I’m more willing to let people in through this medium.

I knew I struggled with writing my last post. I sinned. It was bad. I learned something from it. Hopefully that takes me a step closer to something good. So why get defensive over what people might think? Why pause to think about saving the post for later before I shook my head and published? Why hope that people decide to take the day off from reading me? It was difficult to write – hardly my most clear or entertaining post. I couldn’t decide what to edit out, so it was incredibly long. I was bothered by it – almost posted something this morning to move it away from its spot at the top of the page.

I think the truth is that I don’t want to be seen as overly spiritual. How terrible is that? I know God – well, to some extent. I love Him, though I acknowledge that He’s more aware of the extent of those feelings than I am. I'm glad He knows my heart - someone should, and I don't think I'm always honest with myself about what I feel. It’s confusing – the urge to move closer followed by a retreat when I feel He welcomes me to Him. It’s not unusual – I understand that. There are periods of religious strength then times of lethargy. Undulation. But to embrace those peaks and to display obedience in the valleys? I would change. Become a different version of myself. And, again, I don’t want to do that.

The pills and therapy. A closer relationship with God. Progress at work that indicates I’m operating on some level closer to faculty than graduate student. I’m digging in my heels or dropping to the ground like that toddler who doesn’t want to leave the playground, and resisting any changes for all I’m worth. And when I do try to alter something, it appears to be the wrong thing.

When my parents were here, I noticed that I’m different. It happened without my permission – I’m just not the same as I used to be. I had this urge to revert – to figure out what exactly felt weird so I could fix it. Move backward into the person I used to be and abandon who I currently am. But that’s not an option – not on a real level – nor should it be. I have to go from here. That post last night was true – I believe it to be correct to the extent that I’m able to understand right now. I also consider it relatively important. A point where I can decide which way to go – I’m currently thinking that there are countless moments like that. Where I can make the right choice. My experience is that God isn’t ever far away. If I ask for help – need guidance in making some decision – He provides in some way. I haven’t ever felt forsaken as much as understanding I’ve abandoned the assistance freely offered.

I felt badly about these feelings – the urge to remove what I said, to pretend everything was normal, to talk more of fun things. Projects at work! Shopping! Pretty pictures! Even loneliness and depression are preferable to preachy posts. People are bound to stop reading, I thought morosely. I do like my blog, after all, and I hate to see my audience dwindle if I start to become more of a shiny spirit. But regardless of how much I regret these emotions, I really am struggling with stepping on the path to being more…something. Spiritual? Peaceful? Centered? Focused on God?

In moments where I’m confused or conflicted, I do what has worked in the past. Since I’m struggling with identifying who I am versus who I was, I looked to the very recent past. And decided to read more CS Lewis.

Luckily, I had discussed him with Boss and his wife. Offered my appreciation for The Great Divorce and recommended it enthusiastically when hearing that neither had read it.

“I am reading The Screwtape Letters.” Boss said. “Have you heard of that book?”

“Heard of it.” I replied, looking away from his liver and onions with a slight grimace. “I haven’t read it.”

“It’s good, though it must have been difficult to write.” He noted. “Screwtape is a…what?” He inquired, turning to his wife. “Demon?” She shrugged, then nodded. “He works for the Devil.” He clarified, pausing to sip his water.

“So Screwtape writes these letters to a lesser demon - a tempter - named Wormwood. He offers all this advice on how to take over his assigned person. How he should keep this man from God and the truth and happiness by using all these tricks. It’s good – the stuff he mentions does distract me from God, keeps me from living the way I could. But it must have been hard to write – to turn everything around and make good seem bad and bad seem good. He calls the Devil something like ‘The Father Below.’ But I’m enjoying the novel.”

So I bought Screwtape from audible and started listening to it this morning. I abandoned America: The Audiobook – which is really quite funny – in favor of more Lewis. If you recall, I waited for a few weeks before reading The Great Divorce – I thought it would be difficult for me to hear some of the stories it held. It wasn’t – I was ready and gave over to it quite easily. It was just so good – so filled with light and grace. The angels who came to help the ghosts? They were so joyful, so eager to provide that peace and purpose to the souls who had just entered Heaven. And the ghosts just had to decide to take the trip. To get on the bus that traveled to Heaven from the gray town. Then to walk with an angel until they gained enough strength, lost their ties to the world, and climbed the mountain to reach God.

I pushed play on the iPod and began The Screwtape Letters with the expectation that I would be similarly infatuated with this story.

I’m not.

It’s exquisitely written and read – I’m completely focused on the words and story. I remember nothing about my commute to or from work today – only the 10 letters I was able to hear while I drove. I nodded along, recognizing some truth, wincing in shame when I noticed places I’ve failed – allowed these demons to win.

But it’s hard to read – terrifically difficult to hear. I’m not supposed to believe in demons – don’t know that I do, really. But Screwtape indicates I’m not supposed to – it’s better if I don’t acknowledge the existence of evil. It makes it easier for it to take hold. Screwtape would enjoy that I feel embarrassed and awkward about my recent realizations. A moderate faith, he says, works as well for their side as no faith at all. Which irritates me, honestly, because I don’t like to lose. Don’t like thinking of my particular tempter writing to a favored uncle demon, skipping with happiness because I sinned against God knowingly. That I ignore what I know and avoid learning more. That sin and temptation appear to be victorious for the moment.

The fascinating factor is that Screwtape only grudgingly admits to God’s power, though he calls Him ‘The Enemy.’ So this book feels very dark to me. It’s funny in parts and very compelling throughout (though I’m not even halfway finished yet), but it’s scary. Absent of much hope and light – the work of my tempter, when I think of him, seems so easy. I help him out so very much. Don’t think enough of God or faith – convince myself I’m tired or unable to comprehend some of the concepts. I should instead have some lunch, as Screwtape suggests, or perhaps watch television, read blogs, focus on earthly pleasures – how pretty the leaves are. How nice the soap at work smells. What's going on with entertainment news. Anything to retain focus on sensory information.

“You don’t win.” I said to my tempter, eyes narrowed. “I’m learning. I’ll pray out loud because Screwtape is right – it’s too easy for me to lose focus when I’m silent. I will obey even when I don’t feel God’s presence because you creatures hate that. I do have hope – I do feel amazing relief because God doesn’t want me to be anything other than me. This bright person He put here for a reason and wants to love. You and those like you want me to become nothing more than food for a collective of evil. But now I know. And I can fight back.”

People will think I’m crazy, I thought immediately. That this depression pushed me over the edge into some fanatic faith because I’m very lost. I need to be moderate – talk about something else for a few days, then return to my discussion of faith. That would be more sensible, but would ignore the truth I think I heard from my car speakers.

That truth? I think there’s a struggle. It exists within me, so it’s certainly possible that it also occurs on a larger scale. Good versus evil. Heaven contrasting sharply with Hell. How I spend my days and how that affects where my soul spends eternity. I obviously connect well with what Lewis writes - how he portrays our attachment to this world and his illustration of sin and temptation. It makes sense to me - I can use it to grow and change and become better.

There are all sorts of adjectives I could string together to describe my life, but complicated would need to be included. So, regardless of my true motivation or my feelings about doing so, I’m pulling my faith from the periphery and toward the center. While I certainly understand oscillating between spiritual and secular focus, when I’m offered chances to change – when I’m compelled to think and write and pray even though it’s more than a little uncomfortable – I can’t resist anymore. So I’m moving forward. It’s slow, and I keep looking behind me and perhaps ducking my head because I’m not as proud as I should be, but I’m trying to shuffle out of my slump. It just feels shamefully difficult right now.

Oh, and I'm listening to Screwtape again tomorrow if for no other reason than I think the damn demon would rather I didn't.

"May I kill it?"

An introduction
I have progressed past dragging my feet on this particular post. If you think of the writing process as some sort of path through the woods, I believe you’d find me off to the side, taking a nap. It’s been a long time since I’ve struggled to articulate my thoughts to this degree. My feeling is that it’s important to me – a lesson, a confession and knowledge that I require to move forward successfully.

But once it’s written, it’s real. I’ve said it – skipping parts and stammering through words. But there’s something about writing it out, changing the order of paragraphs, considering the points and the context surrounding them. Trying to tell a cohesive story and explaining my conclusions. My goal isn’t to make you understand anything profound – I have long understood that what works for me isn’t what works for everyone. My hope is that people figure out their faiths to the extent that they’re able. Which is what I’m attempting to do. I’m just finding it difficult.

My typical strategy when I can’t get something written is to start adding headings. They cut out the struggle with transitions. There’s just some bold text that says “Now I shall talk about something else.” And I acknowledge that anyone who reads is more than capable of fitting it all together. That being said, this post is going to be long, and it’s highly unlikely to be elegant.

You’re not obligated to read this, but I’d like it if you would. The one recurring theme is that my faith and thoughts are highly influenced by external sources. I have a great deal left to understand and always appreciate hearing what people have observed or discovered. But here is the current state of my thoughts.


A book report
In the preface of The Great Divorce, CS Lewis discusses how there must be a break from what I love in this world. Not a short-term blip where God becomes momentarily important, but an acknowledgement that I am not meant for this world. I believe there is something after death and that being here has a purpose. But part of life is distractions – very, very tempting ones. As I search for purpose – satisfying work, wonderful friends, the hope that I’ll be able to create a family, acquiring animals to cuddle and care for, searching for love to give and receive, finding joy and enduring pain – I find it to be so compelling. So vividly real that it naturally demands so much of my awed attention that there isn’t a lot left for the ethereal spiritual concepts.

Lewis flips that around. Puts world-obsessed souls in Heaven - a place so substantial, so dense and heavy and real, that you can see through the ghosts. They’re transparent, so delicate that the grass hurts their feet as they stand on it. The narrator is unable to muster the strength to lift a single leaf. And even in the presence of such greatness, the ghosts eventually flee - return to Hell – a grey town - because it’s more of a known factor – comfortable to some extent. As the ghosts meet the angels sent to help them upon their arrival, they give various reasons for wanting to leave the spectacular place – so full of light and promise and joy they can’t access for various reasons. One wants to continue to use his talents – paint and be acknowledged for his gift. Another demands freedom of thought. A woman is embarrassed by her inappropriate clothing and refuses to stay. Another tries to tempt the angels and flounces away in frustration when they fail to gaze at her with lust. Lewis examines parental love, a great deal of fear, and the concept of pity. It’s magnificent, honestly. Such a good book.

But there’s one character - a ghost who came from Hell - that stays with me. I got the feeling he was sick – his spirit was oily rather than purely translucent or vaguely smoky. And he was scolding the lizard on his shoulder as it spoke to him. When his angel approached, the man apologized. Told the angel he was terribly sorry for he knew this was inappropriate. The lizard wouldn’t let him come alone, but now that he was there, the animal refused to stay silent. So he’d have to leave.

The angel asks if the ghost if he’d like the lizard silenced, and the man accepts quickly until the spirit shares his plan to kill the lizard. The man shared my concern – the lizard appeared to be part of him, and though it was clearly making him ill, killing the creature seemed overly harsh. So the man backs away – he wants to wait until later, see his doctor back in the grey town and if it appears necessary to kill the lizard, he will return. The man never rules out the possibility – he simply isn’t ready yet. The angel insists he must decide now – that the lizard is bad for the man, and must be killed.

“May I kill it?” He asks multiple times, and I read quickly, both terrified and fascinated. The man is similarly frightened and the lizard encourages this fear, saying that the angel doesn’t understand, that the man needs him, acknowledges he’s gone too far in the past – encouraged bad behavior and pushed too hard for certain decisions, but he’ll stay quieter, be better. Killing him is unnecessary and scary and painful.

But at the angel’s insistence – his continued requests of “May I kill it?” – the man finally accepts – saying that dying is preferable to living with the creature on his shoulder. So the spirit reaches out his fiery hands and kills the lizard. It seems to cause the man excruciating pain, but then something spectacular happens. Amidst bright light, a spirit emerges from where the ghost had fallen in agony. He is vivid and beautiful and the narrator is distracted when the lizard appears to struggle as well. After his death, the reptile becomes a gorgeous stallion and the man – a shining being that emerged from an oily ghost – is able to ride the horse up the mountain toward where God lives.

It’s a moment of exquisite triumph and joy. I was breathless and brushed away tears – so moved by the mercy of the angel in helping the ghost, the terrified bravery of the man to lose part of himself because it was bad for him, and the incredible reward he received for his eventual willingness to accept help, to face pain, to achieve growth at terrible expense then to emerge as something incredible.

An analogy
Have you seen toddlers throw tantrums? When presented with a refusal to obey with their childish whims, they often lose it. Shrieking cries, faces wet with tears, stamping feet, clenched fists. The frustration and injustice is just so overwhelming that the little guys can’t keep it together. It can be entertaining or irritating or befuddling to watch. Sometimes I understand – I too have wanted a stuffed animal and been crushed with disappointment when denied. And sometimes I frown in line at the grocery store. It’s gum, kid. Honestly – find some perspective. Regardless, the pain is genuine and the desire that this display of angst will somehow turn the tides so their will is obeyed is intense. I like intensity.

I’m reminded as I write this in fits of energy, then frown when it doesn’t make much sense, of the little ones who just go limp. Faced with going to the doctor or leaving the playground, they fall to the ground and refuse to aid any movement. It seems embarrassing to pick up the dead weight of their tiny bodies – to forcibly move them to where they need to go. But as parents – or even as adults in general (since I’m not a parent) – we’re responsible for the tiny creatures. It’s an awesome job – to protect them as they learn, to attempt to teach while relegated to watching them make some mistakes on their own. Sometimes the most effective teaching mechanism is pain.

I’ve been told – when asked for criticism – that I tend toward being more than a bit naïve. So my comparison of my current state to that of a toddler isn’t meant to be dismissive of all I know or have accomplished. Children can be astonishingly smart and capable and wise. They approach some moments of life with such great hope, optimism and love that I’m awed by some of them. But they have a great deal to learn – their abilities to trust might be weakened, they might not be as open to love, the naïve trust that people should play nicely is replaced by the knowledge that cheating, lying and stealing often pay off. You can take advantage and get ahead. Or at least it seems so.

So when you teach children – or as I’m attempting to remind myself – to be good, and then to worry about success, there comes a point where you can’t just pick them up and tote them around. So you turn to reason – telling stories, imparting rules, setting consequences, introducing them to people and concepts so that they participate in making the world better.

I started with the lesson – I certainly can’t illustrate it better than Lewis, so I began with the lizard, stallion, ghost and angel. But some concepts can’t be embraced without personal experience. So now I have to confess and explain mine.

But I want that!
I have more blessings than I can mention. Well, I could mention them, but I don’t. Instead I focus on what I’m missing. Ignore all the toys and games and love in my room at home to fixate on that little stuffed animal at the store that I simply must obtain.

At any cost.

I have a desperate desire to love and be loved. To feel the warmth of someone as he sits next to me. To glow because someone might be thinking of me at this very moment. Those are natural feelings – to care for someone and basking in the comfort that he returned my admiration. Feeling safe, beautiful, important. Loved. That’s good – those things are all good.

But in the moment they became overwhelming – that my grip on them carried me farther from God – I believe they made my soul oily. So why take love – of all emotions with which to sin – and soil it? Make it ugly and inappropriate?

I don’t think God has a man in mind for me.

“Why not?” Mom asked gently as we drove home from the store one night. She understood about the lizard – the representation of sin that comes from inside me. She looked at me – very concerned – when I admitted I’d knowingly and egregiously sinned. I loved God – she’s seen the strength of that devotion and is shocked that anything could overcome it. Dismayed that I allowed this to happen. As am I. But it did.

“I’m not sure.” I answered. “It’s just a feeling. He loves me – I know that. And if I’m not supposed to be married, then it’s the right thing. If I were to get married, I might be unhappy or might love this man more than I love myself or God or anything good. So I understand – on some level – that I should rejoice in God’s love, feel grateful that I haven’t stepped too far off His path to return to it. But I’m sad – I want to be loved, to live with someone, sleep with him, have children, share myself and accept him. I think I’d be good at it. But it has to come with God’s blessing for it to be right. I think I know that.”

But it fails to make me happy. I’m moved by the thought that God understands the core desire that caused the lizard. That I chose a poor representation of love – a red lizard with beady eyes and a twitchy tail – over what is possible – a gleaming horse that eclipses the lizard in beauty, size and function. But if I’m a toddler in the store and see this exquisite toy, I can understand if it’s too expensive. That it is very nice, but it’s not for me. So my feeling is that I should pick something more obtainable and fixate on that.

And that’s what I did. In a moment that will be confessed momentarily.

A request refused
I heard a sermon in the early Spring. I enjoyed it, but I basically put my hands over my ears, scrunched my eyes closed and said “la, la, la!” so the message couldn’t take hold. But it stuck – I always knew it would.

“There are some questions I hate to hear.” My pastor said. “And the main one regards fasting. Whenever I make a doctor appointment and demand the earliest time slot available so I can go the least amount of time possible while fasting, they ask why a preacher can’t go without food more gracefully. And I shrug and give some excuse and keep whining until they give me a 7AM appointment. Because I love to eat! I can’t stand being hungry!”

He had decided that fasting was a good way to retain focus on God by removing some of his earthly focus on food. So he decided to practice before church that morning. He ate dinner on Saturday evening, had 3 servings of dessert to tide him over, then decided he’d have a huge brunch after the 10AM service ended.

“I couldn’t even last until 8:00.” He reported sheepishly. “I was getting ready to come in to greet the early congregation, and had about 2 minutes to spare. I used those minutes to raid the youth group snack closet.

“I found a can of peaches – one of those little pop-top snack tins. I didn’t even waste time looking for a spoon. I just dumped the peaches in my mouth and decided if I dripped on my shirt, my robes would cover it up while I was preaching. Those peaches were amazing. I can’t remember enjoying food more in recent memory – a cheap little can of peaches gave me an incredible amount of pleasure.

“But as I stood there, wiping juice off my chin, I thought about how wonderful it would be if I could hunger like that for God. Be desperate and giddy to be in His presence. Wait impatiently until I could pray. Look eagerly for a break at work so I could read my Bible. Wouldn’t it be amazing if we could take the passion for the worldly things we enjoy – sports, television, friends, family, food – and put that energy toward God instead?”

So he encouraged us to do that. Spoke with passion and enthusiasm and urged us to think of one thing that brought us the most joy – that we were eager for and happy in – and to take a break from it. Just a small break, he said, telling us not to panic. We could still enjoy our favorite thing. But imagine what you could learn and gain if that energy went toward listening to God, loving our neighbors, learning His word, being with Him rather than focused on the world.

I didn’t obey. I understood the message for my little email relationship was very, very good at that point – God clearly said to stop with the online activity for a little while. Take a break from the email which I loved so much. Stop with the daily blogging that takes so much time and attention. Ignore site statistics and avoid reading comments. The eagerness with which I approached people online – spent time reading and writing and thinking, falling in love – should go toward God. Ask His guidance. Try to follow His plan.

My experience is that if I have something that God doesn’t like, He will eventually take it away. So in those moments when I decided to willfully disregard the warning, I knew my attention should be directed elsewhere. When faced with God’s first request to kill the tiny lizard He could see growing in strength, I knowingly chose present pleasure over eternal peace. Waved my hand at God and rested securely in the knowledge that I could eventually be forgiven if I were wrong. But if I could have a relationship, I wanted it – much, much more than I wanted to be right with God.

I didn’t share those thoughts with anyone – friends, family, or the man with whom I was falling in love. I didn’t want to be saved and I was afraid that someone in my life – given the truth of my thoughts – would insist upon their further consideration. But I wanted to love. So the lizard grew. And it made me very, very sick.

I’m not sure the lizard is dead, to be honest. Wounded, certainly, but perhaps still clinging to the control it held over me. And that lizard – even when directed at the best of men who could love me in a wonderful way – is bad. It’s inherently bad, I think. It indicates my lack of trust in God to know what’s best for me – to give what I need and withhold that which will harm me.

I want to be clear here. The lizard was born and started to thrive before anything went badly with Peter. This has absolutely nothing to do with him and everything to do with me and choices I made. I believe that given anyone in the same circumstances, I would have made the same choice. The problem was not that I picked the wrong guy. The error was that I didn’t trust God.

And it’s not the first time.

What about Grandpa?
I received a small booklet my freshman year in college. I believe it was from Campus Crusade for Christ, though I could be mistaken. There was a picture – poorly drawn in black ink on white paper – of 2 scenarios. There was a throne at the center, and 2 figures. One represented me, the other Christ. Scenario 1 had me on the throne and Christ somewhere near the bottom corner of the image. Scenario 2 placed Christ on the throne and me fluttering happily by His side. I rather liked scenario 2, so I decided to take the meeting they offered.

I sat on a sofa in a dim room in the student center. We talked about God and giving over to His will and trusting Him. Then my grandparents came up, though I can’t recall if it was at my urging or theirs. Grandpa didn’t go to church, and I ended up asking if he could go to Heaven anyway.

“He could. If he accepted Christ as his personal savior and knew that his sins were forgiven because that price had been paid for him.”

“And if he didn’t accept that?” I asked, narrowing my eyes in warning and watching the woman shake her head sadly.

“That’s the only way to get there.” She said softly.

So I didn’t return – it was too absolute for me. I wanted to learn and ask questions and cling to the comfort that was offered by believing my loved ones were in a better place. It took me a long time to wrap my mind around the idea of Heaven – who gets in, who might be left out. It eventually came down to trust for me. I believe that God is a benevolent being. His love for me has been proven countless times and I feel him as a peaceful, hopeful presence. Though I understand He is capable of terrible anger and absolute power, I believe He badly wants us to come to Him.

So if I wanted Grandpa in Heaven, God must want him there so very much more. God knew every second of Grandpa’s existence. Must have tried many times to guide him in the right direction, allow him opportunity for love, happiness and purpose. If anyone could get Grandpa to Heaven, it was God. And I trusted that He tried. That if the right thing was for Grandpa to be in Heaven, that God would get him there. And I relaxed. I wanted to go to Heaven – I wouldn’t worry about who else was there. God could deal with them. I’d just try to focus on me.

But here's the tantrum part
I struggle mightily with giving over control. I beg for help when I need it, but then start to feel better and snatch my life away from God, huddle around it protectively, start thinking and planning and excluding Him.

There are countless decisions – moments where I should pause to pray, consider my motivations, think about consequences – that occur every day. I fully expect that I’ll mess many of them up. In my experience, the meager prayers and attention I offer God are enough to give him a bit of my consciousness so that I understand when He yanks me back. When the misery without Him becomes too much. When I’m left weeping and trembling and begging for Him to please kill it – to take whatever is causing me such pain, to forgive that I not only carried the lizard around, but that I saw it, chased it, captured it, and convinced it to stay. Fed it, listened to it, and allowed it to infect the way I think and act and live.

It’s scary. To look at parts of myself – the lizards on my shoulders – and understand they are damaging my soul. On my journey – for some reason - I don’t think I get the horse, and a lizard seemed better than nothing. What toddler wants to leave the store with nothing? I think God wants the horse for me though it may not be in the form I want – a man who could pair with me for my time here – but it will be in the form I need. But to be open to that horse, I need to allow the lizard to die. And I think I’m trying to keep it alive, nurse it back to health. Because it fits in my little brain. I understand what it looks like and how it speaks and how it feels to have moments of happiness surrounded by a life of sadness. Hope that eventually dims in the surrounding darkness. Because the lizard only takes – makes me sick and sad and turns me into someone I don’t recognize. Yet I stamp my foot and cling because he’s my lizard!

I don’t want to meet someone at church – those men tend to be too good. I don’t find them complicated or fascinating. Their impression is more respectful and kind than confident and sexy, and I’m drawn to the latter. I crave the thrilling flirtations, the nudges into sex – mental and physical, the dark shiver when I look at a man and realize he might be able to push me farther than I knew I could go. I’m trying to realize that those desires aren’t inherently lizard-like either. There can be passion and affection mixed with love and obedience to God. I don’t think faith has to be boring. In fact, I’m doing it wrong if it fails to excite me on any real level. I personally love God very much – want to do what’s right in His eyes. I simultaneously have more than a passing interest in sex, secular interests, and sarcastic humor. It’s not at all out of the realm of possibilities that there are men who are completely compelling who have focused on their faiths. Pushed other qualities aside – allowed certain lizards to be killed – to make room for the horses that replace them.

The horse and lizard can’t exist simultaneously. They come from the same desire – the same internal yearnings – and represent those feelings. It’s the dichotomy of my choices – when I screw up and find myself with a lizard, do I stick with the comfort of the familiar – I know how the lizard speaks and he’s not all that heavy to carry around? He’s part of me – I created him. And it will certainly hurt to have him killed. But his very existence prevents the possibility of something better. So faith must get me past the fear – the knowledge that God loved me in the past and will continue to do so. The horse will emerge out of the pain and trust from losing the lizard. I believe this to be true.

His rules are not about earning a place in Heaven or pleasing Him enough to justify His love and hope for me. He is rather an extremely loving parent. Seeking to carry me at times – forcibly moving me to where I need to go. Other times he sends people to give gentle warnings, to support me when I’m low, to offer rebukes when I’m wrong. When I ignore His warnings, I do so at my own peril. I waste time – which is finite – and fail to move toward the greatness I could obtain while I cling to the darkness I create on my own. I’m afraid of change – I really don’t want to give up some of those lizards – but I’m tremendously grateful that I might see them for what they are. His rules are built so I can be successful here - happy, full of purpose and love. I very much want to try to follow them.

In doing so, the hope is that I become more of an adult. And a good adult at that.