The One View I'll Never Get Over

I don't know that there's ever a moment in my life when I am not reflecting on, thinking about, or over-thinking something.  It's both a blessing and a curse.  And maybe because my 30th birthday is approaching in a few months and a variety of things are all converging at once.  I was offered a different position at work so I am changing jobs.  With no longer having the pony at home, I am moving out.  I was asked by a dear friend to head overseas on a trip that her and her husband are leading with the Jesus Film Project, so I'm hopping on a plane in a month and falling off the grid for a few weeks.  It's all good things, but it's a lot to wrap my brain around sometimes.

As I've been sorting through schedules and changes and reflecting on where all I've been in the last 29 years, I've taken stock of a few things.

In the past 29 years, I have gaped at the glaciers in Alaska and thought I had found a bit of heaven on earth.  

I have walked across the bricks of Red Square in Moscow and stared up at St. Basil's Cathedral, a little stunned when it dawned on me, "This is where Stalin walked."  

I have stood on the shores of the Black Sea at sunset and I have hiked up the Caucasus Mountains to see mountain men tending to the wild horses that lived on its slopes.  

I have crossed through rivers so bitter cold in those same mountains that it nearly stole the air right out of my lungs.  

I have had my heart stop beating as I caught a glimpse of the sunset in the vast expanse of the Masai Mara and wondered how I was ever going to leave that place with my heart still intact.  

I have spent a night sleeping on the streets of Los Angeles, all in the name of getting a ticket to the Price is Right.   

I have criss-crossed my way down Krasnaya Street in Krasnodar, eating ice cream and listening to a thousand voices speaking a language I didn't understand.

I have walked the sandy beaches of San Diego, staring out at the endless horizon, hearing the waves crash the shore, and wondered if God really did exist.

I have screamed bloody murder at the rodent hiding in the shadows in Chisec and I have had a rash from the caterpillars in Nairobi.  

I have hiked up the mountains of western North Carolina and I have stood at the edge of her waterfalls.

I have fallen in love with the seemingly endless miles of whiteboard fences and rolling hills of the Kentucky Bluegrass, dreaming of someday living there.

I have seen the humpback whales feeding in the inlets of Juneau and I have seen the sun still setting at 10 o'clock at night in Anchorage.  

I have played games with children in orphanages in Tijuana, Mexico, and I have bartered for jewelry on its city streets in a language I could barely speak.  

I have run my fingers along portions of the Berlin Wall in a tiny town in central Missouri named Fulton, and I have gotten lost in a corn maze just down the road.  

I have stood in Times Square, with its million flashing lights and billboards, and I have gazed out over Central Park from the top of the Rockefeller building.

I have gone horseback riding through the Yukon and I have gone horseback riding through the mountains of Tennessee.  I have fallen off a few horses in Ohio and I have chased after one across the track of the famous Red Mile in Lexington.

I have been to the top of the St. Louis Arch, overlooking the mighty Mississippi and I have been to the top of the Washington Monument, overlooking the lazy Potomac.

I have driven across thousands of miles of open highway in America, passing through city after city, taking note of street names and town names and creek names like Nameless Creek, found somewhere along the way in Indiana (or maybe Illinois?).  

I have been through airports from Chicago to Rome to Dallas to Dubai to Addis Ababa to Guatemala City, and perhaps silently cursed only at the airport in Detroit.

I have wept at the poverty in the slums of Kenya and I have wept over the disabled children forgotten in a tiny orphanage in Krasnodar and I have wept over empty bellies of little ones in remote parts of Central America.

I have stood at the edge of the Grand Canyon, listening to it's thundering silence and I have stood at the edge of Niagara Falls, listening to its dull roar as gallons upon gallons of water tumble over its edge.

I have blitzed my way through cities like Moscow, New York, and Washington D.C. via the frenzied metro and subway systems, just hoping to make it out with all my limbs still intact.

I have sweat my weight in the hot sun in a tiny village called Mount Hermon and I have shivered my way through nights spent sleeping on straw mattresses in the forgotten parts of Russia.      

And hopefully in a month I can say I have walked on the shores of a tiny French island off the coast of Australia, and say I have hiked my way through parts of New Zealand, all in the name of setting foot in Hobbiton.  

They have all been spectacular adventures.  Every single one of them.  And I wouldn't trade them for anything. God's been gracious beyond measure and has offered me opportunity after opportunity to revel in Him and his goodness.  

But the one view I'll never get tired of - the one view I am most eager to return to is a field in my backyard in Smalltown, USA.  

It's the same view I have seen a thousand times over. 

And it's the one view I'll never get over.  Home.

My friend, Alex, and I took this photo in the fall of 2007.  The photo is exactly as we saw it that
 night, no touch-ups, no alterations.  God's stunning brilliance on display.
Right at the end of my driveway. It is hands-down one of my very favorite photographs.

What It's Like to Be Sober

I sat quietly in the back of the court room, watching as each woman stood up one by one and answered the question, "How many days sober?"  For one woman it was a mere 11 days.  For another it was 4 years and so many days.  I watched as one woman shared her story - how she had been adopted just days after being born, how her biological father had murdered her mother by slashing her pregnant body in half.  I watched as one woman struggled to share the lyrics to a song she had written in her art therapy program, her means of releasing so much pain.  I listened to their stories and I listened to their fears.  I heard the patience in the judge's voice as he gently prodded each woman, drawing them out, inquiring about their progress and their setbacks.

And my heart couldn't decide whether to weep over their brokenness or rejoice in their slow, long march to restoration.

I had ventured into CATCH Court (Changing Actions to Change Habits) several weeks ago in order to catch a glimpse of this "restorative justice" in progress.  I first contacted Doma back in February to inquire about volunteering, and then quickly followed up by attending one of their volunteer trainings and then another training focusing specifically on mentoring one of these women.  The organization focuses on empowering women who have been victims of sex trafficking, primarily through the means of CATCH Court, which is a specialty docket court here in Columbus.  After I had attended the mentoring training, a Doma staff member suggested I attend CATCH Court, just to get a feel for the scope of what these women go through and how the process actually works.

These women typically voluntarily opt-in to CATCH, oftentimes in lieu of jail time.  By being a part of CATCH, these women agree to a series of guidelines, including attending court every Thursday and adhering to the boundaries set by their case workers, counselors, sponsors and the judge, Judge Paul Herbert.

I was amazed and humbled and awed by what I witnessed in that court room.  After I left, and as I got in my car to drive down the highway, hot tears sprang to my eyes because I couldn't wrap my brain around what I had just witnessed.  I couldn't wrap my brain around the addictions and the depravity and the abuse.  And I couldn't wrap my brain around the grace and the mercy and the unfailing love of a God I do not fully understand.

When I was interviewing for a possible mentoring position with Doma, I had the opportunity to speak with one of the women, Sandy, who had recently graduated from CATCH.  I was feeling so many insecurities about the possibility of mentoring, wondering what on earth I would have to offer these women.  I have no idea what it's like to walk in their shoes - to battle back additions every moment of every day - to feel so desperate to survive that you'll do anything, including selling your own body to the next man who walks by.  I have no idea how to relate and during the interview I suddenly felt overwhelmed by the prospect of entering into the lives of these women, feeling ill-equipped and inadequate for the task.

As I shared those fears with Sandy, she looked at me, pausing to gather her thoughts, and then she said one of the most profound things I have ever heard in my life:

"You don't need to know what it's like to have an addiction.  Because I want to know what it's like to be sober.  And you know how to do that." 

It was like somebody had hit me with a 2x4. You don't need to know what it's like to have an addiction because I want to know what it's like to be sober.  All of my insecurities dealt with in one concise and gentle nudge.  I'm sure I continued to gape at her, amazed at the wisdom pouring out of her mouth.  And I'm sure it was a simple way of her telling me to get over myself.  I frequently need that reminder as well.

I don't know where this adventure leads from here.  I'm not sure the stories that will come my way as I enter into the lives of these women.  But I imagine I will learn far more from them than I will ever be able to teach them.        

But Even If

Sometimes your brain gets the best of you when you get sick.  And thanks to Google, we now have at our fingertips the ability to self-diagnose all sorts of crazy things and work ourselves into a frenzy when we so much as sneeze sideways.  Everything on the internet, after all, is the gospel truth.  There is no arguing with webMD and the random website written by Joe Schmoe that says apple cider vinegar is the answer to everything.

Out of that fact and in light of my recent back pain (currently pain free and have been for a couple of weeks!), I've had a lot of irrational thoughts here lately.  We'll chalk it up partly to pain and partly to being female.  I'm pretty sure I've planned my funeral at least ten times over and envisioned all sorts of farewell conversations with my family and friends.  I have plotted out the perfect conversation I would have with my boss about my imminent death and what would need to be handled for the projects I oversee.  I made a mental list of what my will would say and who would get all my books.  I even commissioned a friend to see to it that if I should die suddenly due to this tumor that was surely causing my back pain, she is responsible for burning all of my journals.  I told her where the key is to my safe, which is where all my journals are stored.  (Some people keep money and jewels in a safe.  I keep my life story not only in a fireproof, but waterproof safe.) Over the last two months, I think I have diagnosed myself with about three different types of cancer, along with adrenal fatigue, a possible life-threatening tumor and rabies for good measure.

(When my pony was sick, I never ran any tests to officially confirm that she had EPM, which meant we had never officially ruled out anything else either, including rabies.  Thus, there was about a 24-hour time period when I was waiting for the state agricultural diagnostic lab to give me the rabies test results.  If she had been positive for rabies, I would have been exposed to it and that would have had serious health implications, truly.  I can assure you I was reading into every single move I made, thinking, "Surely this is the onset of rabies!")

I really need to get a grip some days.

But out of all those completely irrational thoughts, a few rational ones did manage to rise to the surface.  The kind that bring reality front and center and leave with you maybe more questions than answers.

I began working through the hypotheticals -

Let's suppose I do have cancer or some sort of a tumor.  (And I in no way want to make light of anyone who has had to go through that diagnosis.  My back pain is nothing compared to that, I am well aware of that fact.  I am merely poking fun at my own insanity here.)

Or for laughs, let's suppose I do have rabies.

Okay.

So what?

Am I going to turn my back on God?  Am I going to say to God, "You know what? You lied.  You didn't keep me safe.  How dare you not give me a life of bliss, one free from hardship."

Nope.

Am I going to throw in the towel and say, "I'm out.  This got too hard"?

Nope.

Am I going to curse God for allowing bad things to happen to me, like Job's wife suggested? (See Job 2.)        

Nope.

So what then?  So what if all of those things happen?

I think of the three men from the story in Daniel 3, who stood before a king, openly defying him, knowing they would be thrown in a fiery furnace as a result of their disobedience.  The king had made a decree that all people had to bow down to the image of gold he had created.  These three men - Shadrach, Meschach and Abednego - refused.  The king summoned them, blasting them for not bowing down to the image as he had commanded.  Their response?

“King Nebuchadnezzar, we do not need to defend ourselves before you in this matter.  If we are thrown into the blazing furnace, the God we serve is able to deliver us from it, and he will deliver us from Your Majesty’s hand. But even if he does not, we want you to know, Your Majesty, that we will not serve your gods or worship the image of gold you have set up.”

But even if he does not.  

Man, those words are hard.  

But even if.  

But even if God chooses not to save us from the fire, we will still worship him.  

Are we really willing to say that, to echo the words of Shadrach, Meschach and Abednego?  Are we truly willing to say, but even if he doesn't save me from whatever fire I am going through, I will still choose to worship him?  Will I voice my choice to bend my knees to him alone?  

Fill in your own.  "But even if he doesn't save me from this trauma."  "But even if he doesn't save my child from this disease."  "But even if he doesn't heal my family's brokenness."  "But even if he doesn't rescue me from this heartache."  "But even if he doesn't pull me out of this pit."  "But even if doesn't keep me from this flame."    

But even if.

I want to be able to say with confidence - but even if you don't, God, I will still worship you.  I will call Satan's bluff and not let this fear rule.  Because I am in.  All my cards are on the table and I have been through too much with You to turn my back now.  I know that you can and are so very able to rescue and save and redeem and restore and protect.  But if for some reason you choose to leave me in the fire -   

I will worship you at the end of it all.  

"Should I ever be abandoned, should I ever be acclaimed, should I ever be surrounded by the fire and the flame, there's a name I will remember, there's a name I will proclaim...  

Let it be, let it be Jesus."    

  

He Noticed the Thief

It's amazing how fast the walls close in mentally when you're in pain.

This past month has been quite possibly the worst physical pain I have ever had in my life.  My lower back muscles decided to go on strike over a month ago and it wasn't until this week that I felt remotely normal.  I've missed about a week's worth of work and I have been canceling plans left and right because I can barely function and all I want to do is lie flat on my bed.

The pain has been a consuming thought.  I would wake up and think about the pain.  I would drive and think about the pain.  I would sit at my desk and think about the pain.  I would go to bed at night and think about the pain.  I would (attempt) to walk and think about the pain.  I would breathe and think about the pain.  Every waking moment was spent thinking about myself and this hurt and how to escape it.  I lost track of the number of mental and emotional breakdowns I had, which usually resulted in me flat on my bedroom floor sobbing and barely able to breathe.

I just wanted it all to go away.

Ultimately, all I have done for this past month is think about myself.

I forgot that a world around me existed or that anyone else around me might be in worse shape.  I've done nothing but live in my own little bubble, inside my own little head, unable to see past the end of my own nose.

And as I've thought about the timing of all this - here in the midst of this season when all things point to the single greatest pain ever experienced by one man in the history of the world - I nearly missed the lesson.

I keep thinking about Jesus, hanging on the cross, in sheer agony and suffering, in the kind of pain that makes mine look like a bucketful of sunshine and rainbows.  And the one fact I simply cannot escape is this:

Even in the face of his impending mortal death, even in his deepest moment of torture and agony, Jesus still noticed the thief next to him.  

I mean, really. Stop and think about this.  Think about the worst pain you ever have been in - mental, emotional, physical.  Now let's multiply that times ten.  I'm pretty sure you didn't care about the rest of the world at that moment. I know I sure haven't cared a whole heck of a lot about the rest of the world either here lately.

But then there's Jesus. Pure selflessness even while in agony.  Spikes driven into his hands, spear drawn through his side, a crown of thorns mashed onto his head, blood freely pouring out from seven places.  His back looks like hamburger meat.  His lungs are failing because he can't lift himself up enough to get a breath.  And somehow he still manages to notice the man crucified next to him.

One of the criminals who hung there hurled insults at [Jesus]: "Aren't you the Christ? Save yourself and us!" But the other criminal rebuked him.  "Don't you fear God," he said, "since you are under the same sentence?  We are punished justly, for we are getting what our deeds deserve.  But this man has done nothing wrong."   

Then he said, "Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom." 

Jesus answered him, "I tell you the truth, today you will be with me in paradise." 

[Luke 23:39-43]

Jesus noticed the thief.

And that just blows my mind.

Because in this moment, when in his humanity he could have easily ignored either man hanging beside him, when he could have easily said, "Just get me off this cross and make it all go away," he turns to the thief and says, "I notice you.  This is the very reason why I came - was to notice you.  You are not forgotten.  And today you will be with me in paradise."

How many moments have I missed along the way in the midst of all this pain?  How often have I let it eclipse all thought of others around me and their own sorrowing and suffering, or even their joy and gladness?  Here in this season of Lent and Passover, here in this season of giving up in order to gain, here in this season of turning our eyes to the cross - how often did I miss the person next to me?

Jesus knew even on the cross, even in his worst pain, that the pain really was never about him.

It was about the thief next to him.

And the miracle of miracles is that Jesus still notices the thief and the criminal in me today, the girl who wants to rob the world in order to escape her own pain, the girl who is far too often so very self-absorbed.  And he still turns to me and says, "Today - today I notice you."

I want to be like Jesus.  I want to turn and notice the world around me, no matter my own pain, no matter my own heartache.  I don't want to get so myopic that all I do is focus on what's right in front me - and forget that this pain is temporary.  I don't want to forget that someday I'll get to trade it all in, and stand in the light of God's glory, right next to the thief Jesus noticed on the cross next to him over 2,000 years ago.

"Therefore we do not lose heart.  Though outwardly we are wasting away, yet inwardly we are being renewed day by day.  For our light and momentary troubles are achieving for us an eternal glory that far outweighs them all.  So we fix our eyes not on what is seen, but on what is unseen.  For what is seen is temporary, but what is unseen is eternal."  2 Corinthians 4:16-18
  

Severe Mercies and Graceful Exits

I suppose in life this is where severe mercies and graceful exits collide.  Severe mercies - those things that need to happen for our own good (or for reasons that make sense only to God) but bring their fair share of pain in the process.  And the graceful exits - when you figure out how to let go and move on.

If you caught the last post then you know that my pony was very sick.

When I called the vet out to our house over a week ago, shortly after Bud started to show obvious symptoms, we started her on drugs and I held out hope they would have an impact.  Her symptoms didn't seem to get worse, but they never got better either.  Last Friday, the symptoms finally took a turn for the worse and I was anticipating that I would need to be making a decision that night about putting her down.  The vet thought she still had a fighting chance because she was fairly responsive mentally even though other parts of her movement weren't faring so well.  We tried a treatment of an anti-inflammatory drugs the next day via IV to see if that would maybe help ease things.

When I came out Sunday morning, she was a mess.  Her coat was soaked and she just kept pacing in circles, the most energy she had exerted in awhile.  I likewise became a mess.  I've still been in some pretty miserable back pain, and being acutely aware of the possible decision I would probably need to make about whether to put her down or not just sent me over the edge mentally.  I brought a halt to my Sunday and cancelled all my plans and even ditched church.  I was supposed to teach the 4 year-olds but I didn't see that going over very well.  I just wanted to sit in a dark corner and cry my eyes out, which I ended up doing for the most part.

I checked on her periodically throughout the day and every time I went out, she would be laying down in her stall, something she hadn't been doing since she had been sick.  She just wasn't getting up anymore.

I texted the vet and told her I think it's time.

God bless this vet, Dr. Marylou Rings. I don't know what I would have done without her compassion and patience.  She is the best person I could have called.  She came out later last Sunday afternoon and by the time she arrived, it was abundantly clear that we had reached the end.

I don't ever want to have to make that kind of decision again in my life, the decision to bring an end to life.  One of the hardest things I have had to do in a very long time.

But I couldn't watch her suffer anymore.  I couldn't stand to watch her flail around, trying to get up and finding out that her body just isn't cooperating, that her neurological system is completely failing.

And I wanted to feel guilty in some sort of irrational way, like I wished this on her somehow.  That because I wanted to find her a new home and a new owner, that I inadvertently brought this on.  I know that's crazy, but my emotions have run the gamut in the last two weeks.  Guilt.  Relief. Worry.  Fear.  Hope.  Believe me, I have thought all sorts of crazy things.  Pain will do that to you. (And maybe just being a girl will do that to you.)

But it was this weird moment - that moment when it really was this graceful exit, when the decision was made and her heart stopped beating, it was like a release.  It was time to move on with life.  And I don't mean that in calloused, cold-hearted, unfeeling, detached sort of way.  Death is simply a reality of life this side of heaven.  It's like in 2 Samuel 12 after David has an affair with Bathsheba.  They have a child together, but the child ends up getting sick and dying.  All while the child was alive, David fasted and prayed and wept.  Then when the child died, he got up, he worshiped and he ate.  The servants were ranting at him, wondering why on earth he was now eating and going on with life when his child had just died.  David simply said, "Can I bring him back again?"  The answer was simply no.  And while the loss of a child is vastly different from merely losing a 19-year old pony, the concept still applies.  There's nothing I can do to bring her back again.  I did all that I could to keep her alive and it simply wasn't enough to fend off this disease.  So now I get up, I worship and I eat again, so to speak.  Life goes on.

And it is in this moving on process that I have to reconcile the severe mercies of life and the graceful exits.  No doubt, there will be some changes to life - no more buying feed or running up to the grain mill to get bedding.  No more calling the farrier to come trim her feet.  No more nights juggling a schedule and making sure somehow the pony gets fed.  No more having my parents feed her while I'm off to some corner of the world.  No more text messages from my dad saying he fed "the mule" for me whenever I had a late night. No more winters spent getting up and paving a way to the barn in the below zero temperatures to make sure she gets fed.  Nineteen years of habits undone in just a few moments.

Both the letting go and holding on, all wrapped up at once.  Severe mercies - the disguised graces.  And the graceful exits, when we move on and find that in the end it is all just as God planned.        

Two Lame Peas in a Pod

My pony Bud and I have decided to be invalids together.

She staggers around like she's drunk and I sometimes just wish I was drunk.  

We make a great pair.

Bud, on one of her less drunk days.

I noticed a couple of weeks ago that her breathing was not quite right.  It was just real raspy and hollow-sounding.  I found it odd because she's never been sick a day in her life, but I thought it would eventually pass.  Then she started acting slightly lethargic, just not her usual self.  I would watch her and it's like she would tilt her head slightly cockeyed and stare off into space.  I was out of town over the weekend and I told my parents to keep an eye on her, just make sure she's still eating and drinking water like normal.  By the time I got home Sunday afternoon, I went to check on her and found her staggering around so much it was startling.

I've never had a vet out to see her before - how we have gone 19 years without ever having a vet out is beyond me.  But we never needed one and I'm not going to vaccinate a pony that lives by herself and isn't around any other animals, so in my mind it was never necessary.  Either way, I'm now googling large animal vets in the area to see who I can find.  Luckily, I find one just down the road from us so I give her a call and ask her to make an emergency visit out to our barn.  I probably could have waited until usual business hours on Monday, but I had no clue what my pony was dealing with so I thought it best to be proactive and get answers sooner rather than later.

The vet comes out and does the exam.  The poor thing - at one point the vet is leading her around to check her gait and mobility and Bud nearly falls over.  Her muscles just refused to cooperate. She really does act like she's drunk, like a little baby foal just learning to stand up, all wobbly.

The short version of it all is that the vet suspects she has EPM - equine protozoal myeloencephalitis.  It's a neurological disease spread by guess what?  Possums.  Yes, possums.  They are the sole carrier of the disease and they most likely were in Bud's pasture area and contaminated the grass she was eating.  I started her on a drug treatment the next day, but it will take about a week to see any results.  The vet is not optimistic that she'll survive.

But if I know this pony and the long line of bullheaded owners she comes from, she'll probably not only defy the odds, she'll bounce back and live for another decade.  How is it in the same month that I try to find her a new home, she tries to stage a coup and die on me?  Oh my stars, I did not think this through when I was nine-years old and asked my parents for a pony.  I didn't look down the road to 20 years later and think I would still be taking care of this little stinker when I'm almost thirty years old.  I do not want to be 40 and still have her hanging out in my backyard.

Don't misunderstand me - I'm not saying I want her dead.  I just want her to be someone else's lawnmower on four legs.  Don't judge me.  There's a big difference so please don't take me for a heartless pony hater.  I love her dearly and she's a good little pony.  I would just like to move her on down the road so I can do the same.

So while Bud is walking around like a drunk, I'm just not walking around.  My lower back has decided to pitch a fit and has been doing so for almost a month now.  It's miserable.  I can barely walk some days and the thought of sitting upright in a desk chair nearly sends me over the edge so I've been missing work as well.  Ice packs and stretching have become my new best friends.

Maybe one of these days you'll just find both Bud and me passed out in her stall next to each other because we have collectively decided that standing or moving is not worth the effort.  Just somebody make sure to bring her some hay and me some Cheez-its.              

Don't Ever Go To Bed Without Knowing Where This Is

We were gathered around a small coffee table, a gaggle of orphan Kenyan boys and their mama in their little cottage just outside Nairobi.  The kids were all in their pajamas, their little black and brown bare feet sticking out from underneath well-worn fleece pants and hand-me-downs.  Mama Esther waited patiently for each of them to find their own seat.  It was the same routine each night during cottage devotions - every night promptly at 7:00, they gathered around to sing, pray, read the Word of God and be sent off to bed with blessings and hugs.

But tonight was different.  On this night, each of the six-year old boys in the cottage was being presented with his very own Bible.  Most of the older children already had a Bible of their own, their names written in marker on the covers, warned to not misplace them.  The same had been done for these younger boys, their names written neatly in black marker on the inside cover.

Mama Esther had the stack sitting beside her on the table.  Before she handed them out, though, she gave a message that has been seared into my brain forever.  At the time it was a rebuke to my heart, unbeknownst to her.  Now it is a haunting reminder, the memory serving as a gentle nudge so often.  The speech might have been intended for a group of young boys in Kenya, but it was a swift kick to a girl in America.   

She looked very carefully, very intensely at each of the boys and said her in thick Kenyan accent, "Don't ever go to sleep without knowing where this is," holding up the Bible.  She paused, as if gathering steam.  "If you wake up in the middle of the night and don't know where it is, you get out of bed and you go find it.  And you do not rest until you have found it again."  

And like a swift blow to the heart, as those words tumbled out of Mama Esther's mouth, I was humbled and convicted, realizing I was more apt to be concerned about where my phone was rather than where the Word of God was. Dear Jesus, forgive me.

Since that time, I have realized time and again how little I esteem the Word of God.  I treat it so lightly, acting like reading it is a chore rather than the privilege it is, acting like it is an inconvenience rather than a joy.  While I might go to bed each night knowing where it is, how often I go to bed each night not knowing what it says.

  

For whatever reason, one of the disciplines I struggle with most in this journey of following Christ is reading His Word.  I know.  You wouldn't think so.  You would think the girl who loves to read books would have read this thing cover to cover by now and have it memorized forwards and backwards.  Yet I stumble over it in the pursuit of reading anything but that.  I find a million other things to do or accomplish before I sit down to soak it up.  

But Jesus has continually reminded me of this elementary and oh-so-obvious truth:

If the Word of God is ever to make a difference in my life, I have to pick it up for myself.

I've got to physically pick this thing up and actually crack open the pages.  There is no shortcut to reading His Word and knowing His will.  I can't get it by osmosis and I can't get it by listening to a thousand other sermons merely about His Word. I can't get it by merely talking about it and I can't get it by reading other books written about The Book.  I've got to pick it up for myself.  You've got to pick it up for yourself.

As Mama Esther said, may I not rest until I find it.  May I not rest until I find Him.  When I wake up in the middle of the night, would I go in search of it.  When I rise in the morning, may I be scrambling to study its pages.  When I pause in the day, may its verses fill my mind.  Because it's never going to make a difference in my life if I leave it on the shelf and hope by some miracle it leaks into my soul.  It simply will not work that way.  And yet I have fooled myself into thinking I can get bits and pieces of it here and there.  Some on Sundays.  Some on Monday nights when I feel like it.  Some on Wednesdays at small group.  

Pick it up, Courtney. 

Pick.it.up.

Father, forgive me for thinking so little of your breath breathed onto the pages of life.  Forgive me for forgetting that a vast majority of the world doesn't even have a Bible and yet when they do, it it their greatest possession- and yet I have numerous copies and mine gather dust. Forgive me for finding a thousand excuses for not making time to bask in the glory of your holy and perfect Word.  Not a one of those excuses is legitimate.  

May I never go to sleep again without knowing where it is and the power it contains. 

The Definition of Insanity

Someone recently told me I was the definition of insanity.

How kind of him.  Such a good friend.

I was having a conversation with this someone, a friend of mine from college, about a month ago.  Our decade-long friendship has been a bit of a rocky road, usually entailing telling the other person what they need to hear and not what they want to hear.  It hasn't always gone over well.  But there are those rare moments when he manages to make a statement I actually happen to agree with.

This was not one of those moments.

We were discussing over the phone our dating lives - and sometimes the lack of.  We weighed the value of online dating - the pros, cons and pitfalls - and discussed his seemingly effortless ability to get a date and my utter indifference to even exerting the effort to get a date.  (He is a highly social and extroverted character, so introverts such as myself are quite a mystery to him.)

At which point he told me I was the definition of insanity.  Meaning I keep doing the same thing over and over again expecting different results.  And in his words, it meant unless I want to marry the UPS man, I'm going to have to make more of an effort and change my game plan.

I had no snappy comeback so I just went silent. Quite frankly, I was too annoyed, angry and defensive.  The comment stung and no rational thoughts were coming to my brain.

And maybe the comment stung because there was a tiny bit of truth to it.  Yes, I probably am the definition of insanity on occasion, and not just in the realm of dating.  I'll own that.

But as I pondered that thought in recent weeks, what I really should have said and wish I would have said back to him in that moment was this:

If marriage were my number one goal in life, then, yes, I am the definition of insanity.  Lock me up, put me in a straight jacket and give me my meds.

But because Jesus is the goal, I have been set free. My life does not hinge on whether or not I am married.  It does not hinge on whether or not I have hit a certain quota of dates per week, per month, per lifetime, per whatever.  It does not hinge on whether I have an online profile with eHarmony. com, match.com or christianmingle.com.  It does not hinge on whether or not the UPS man ever shows up on my doorstep and it does not hinge on whether or not anybody ever puts a ring on my finger and says to me, "I do."

It hinges on Jesus only.

He is the goal.

And that's all I need to know.  Are there times when I was wish there was a boyfriend or husband by my side?  Of course. There is no doubt a longing deep in my heart for that.

But my world has not, is not, will not come tumbling down around me in the absence of that.

I will not strive (see #5 here) and fight my way through this world in search of someone to fill a gap that only Jesus can.  I get the sweet freedom of resting in his sovereignty and chasing after Him.

So, if that makes me the definition of insanity - then I'll gladly move to the front of the line.            

What Was Given

Every once in awhile I'll do a piece of artwork when I think to myself, "I actually like this piece."  Normally I create something, over-analyze it, decide there are too many things wrong with it and then pawn it off on somebody.  I think my friend Alex has all of my discarded artwork that I decided I don't like. The latest piece is one that fits in the former category.  I really love it actually.  It's a quote from the movie version of The Voyage of the Dawn Treader.  Prince Caspian says it at the very end of the movie and it struck a chord with me.  

I'm still recycling Jimmy Buffett's book, which is where all of the book pages on the background came from.  I mod podged the letters on.  Used twine to make the lines, weaving them together where they intersect.  And voila. My new favorite piece.   

Farewell to the Home of a Thousand Memories

"People are always telling you that change is a good thing. But all they're really saying is that something you didn't want to happen at all... has happened. My store is closing this week. I own a store, did I ever tell you that? It's a lovely store, and in a week it will be something really depressing, like a Baby Gap. Soon, it'll just be a memory. In fact, someone, some foolish person, will probably think it's a tribute to this city, the way it keeps changing on you, the way you can never count on it, or something. I know because that's the sort of thing I'm always saying. But the truth is... I'm heartbroken. I feel as if a part of me has died, and my mother has died all over again, and no one can ever make it right." ~ You've Got Mail

Leave it to You've Got Mail to give me the words I need at the moment when I most need them.  It's not the first time this has happened.

The place where I found a second home, a second family, and learned that Jesus was enough is about to change hands.  Wheeler Stables, the place where I cleaned out more stalls than I care to count and took a few tumbles off the backs of a few lesson horses.  The place where I gathered a few dreams and watched a few fall apart.  The place where I fought a few fears and maybe finally found some comfort in my own skin.  The place where I met people who understood my obsession with horses and did weird things like feed their horses mints and scratch their tongues.  The place where I learned what it looked like to bust my tail to accomplish something, to work hard for what I wanted.  The place where I cried a few tears in frustration, but felt the satisfaction and sweetness of having a twelve hundred pound beast respond just the way I wanted them to.

It will all soon belong to someone else.

I feel a lot like Kathleen Kelly in You've Got Mail. The stables is in the process of being sold and in a short time it's going to be something really depressing like a Quarter Horse farm. (My apologies to any QH lovers reading this.  I'm sure they are lovely creatures, but I will forever be partial to the American Saddlebred and that's all I'll be able to picture in the stalls of this barn.)  People say change is a good thing, but what they are really saying is that something you didn't want to happen at all...has happened.  And soon this farm will be just a memory.  And maybe I am a bit heartbroken.

I know, it's just a building.  A place built by human hands.  Wood, brick, aluminum.  Hay, dirt, sawdust.  Cobwebs, horseflies, and maybe one too many gnats.  

But this is where so much of my life happened.

And I'm sad.  I'm sad to see it soon belong to someone else, to not be able to pull in its driveway whenever I want.  The farm was actually officially put on the market over a decade ago.  It rocked my world even then to find out my trainers were selling, it just seemed deeply personal, like I was about to lose a part of my very own identity.  But years passed and no one came along to buy it.  It was just one of those things that I subconsciously thought would always be there, just as I always remembered it, always belonging to Wheelers.

While a small part of me grieves, I will forever be grateful for that little corner of the world, those 84 acres where I learned what it finally meant to like who I was.  It was in your aisleways and stalls that I felt at home, at ease.  It was on your board fences that I figured out what it looked like to let go of some dreams, and come up wanting better dreams, different dreams.  It was on your grassy fields that I learned to hang on for dear life, literally and figuratively.  It was in your tack room that I came to love the smell of leather and Murphy's Oil.  It was in your arena that I learned to dust myself off and get back on again.  And it was through two people, Dave and Eileen Wheeler, that I was forever changed.  Apart from my own family, no two other people have had the greatest impact on those years of my life like you two did.  You encouraged me, spoiled me, taught me, and loved me like no one else did at that time.  Your farm was my outlet and my safe haven from the chaos of my life.  You were my retreat when I was so desperate to hide away.

My story, my past doesn't make sense without this place.  It's incomplete.  Someone once said, "All the art of living is a fine mingling of letting go and holding on."  This is the fine mingling of letting go of a physical place. And holding onto a thousand memories of a place I will forever love.