It's not you, it's me

For me, actually.

This blog, this place where I share my thoughts and musings and processings, is as much for me as it is for you.

This weekend I read a memoir titled, Stumbling Toward Faith, by Renee Altson.

It was incredible. There are no words for me describe the beauty of reading of someone else’s story, being offered an exquisite glimpse into someone else’s pain and questions, secret fears and fleeting hopes. It was a gift.

I was reminded of my need to write. Of the value of my story (and your story and sharing these stories).

Writing for me is an act of remembering. Even more, it is a discipline of thankfulness.

When God whispered to me to “write my love story” it was a command to share, but it was also a command to remember.

To remember the times I couldn’t step foot in a church. To remember the outrage I felt at injustice. To remember the first time I felt a real, a raw, a ragged hope begin to stir in my own honesty.

To remember so that I may be open to those who are still questioning, still angry, still hurt, still outside the camp, scoffing and alone.

Renee writes, "I like it in this little space of being loved. I like this newness, this fresh perspective, this ordinary holiness weaving itself into the tapestry of my life, and I want to worship something; I want to proclaim my gratitude, my awe, the miracle that I notice, that I see what's happening. I want to hold out my hands and say thank you."

Her book was just that: an offering of thanks.

And I hope that this blog would be a place where I could weave my own words of worship together.

To remember the first flickers of hope that led me to Love. To encourage you as you seek Love, as you seek to weave together the threads of hope and grace and redemption in your own life.

I hope you are encouraged. I hope my thoughts point to something greater than me.

I hope that, together, we can begin to acknowledge this newfound love, this newfound wonder, this everyday miracle that we can notice God's stirrings at all.

Helpful?

February 2007

The acidic pineapple assaulted my mouth and I could barely keep my eyes open. It was 6:30 a.m. We walked on the cobbled dirt road past children in smoothed school uniforms, their dark eyes shining brilliantly in their smiling faces. They looked at me like I was an alien, a goddess, Britney Spears. How could I teach them English? How could I teach them anything? I pleaded with God that I could be helpful, if just for an hour. A year later and I still wanted more than anything to helpful; it’s just that I no longer pleaded with God.

Worship Wednesday

The tempo increased and she recognized the tune of her favorite worship song. The one about new life. She shut her eyes tightly and waited for the Holy Spirit.

Padre, Padre, Padre she murmured, Father, Father, Father, holding her hands out as if a shiny prize would be placed in the deep grooves of her palms if only she believed hard enough. Her body shook with excitement. She swayed slightly as the Spirit descended upon her.

Ven, Espiritu Santo, she entreated. Come, Holy Spirit.

As the words of worship flowed over her body, she relaxed. It was just her and God. His love coursed through her veins, speeding her heartbeat to a quick tempo like the maracas that were being shaken onstage. She felt God inside her chest. He was the air that she breathed, filling her lungs, her heart. She didn’t even feel the tears rolling down her soft cheeks. She could stay here forever, swaying rhythmically and receiving from an All-loving God.

Eres todopoderoso, she exhaled, You are all-powerful.

Her hands shot up in the air as she reached up to Heaven, feeling closer to God as she stretched her finger tips away from her own tired, sinful body and toward His love. Her heart beat with the music, with praise. Peace rained over her as He reigned in her.

Padre, Padre, Padre, she whispered again. Father, Father, Father.

He filled her as she emptied herself. The tempo slowed and everything seemed to hang in that moment, in that space between the heart of God and the heart of man.

The song ended. Her swaying stopped; she dropped her outstretched hands, opened her eyes and blinked. The church was clearing out. She quickly wiped her tears, smoothed her skirt, and went on with the rest of her day.

*In lieu of T.S. Tuesday (which I apologize I did not get to post yesterday), I was going to post a tardy Tuesday, but instead decided to go with the more timely, and still alliterative, Worship Wednesday. You'll have to catch my latest Eliot musings next Tuesday. This first-ever Worship Wednesday describes an experience I had worshipping in a Pentecostal church in Costa Rica with my host mom. Hope you enjoyed it.