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Once Upon A Book

21 Feb

Eight years ago I was participating in a required fasting retreat. (It’s bizarre to think I ever did that.) Even though I had to break it early and eat crackers, It was Valentine’s Day and it snowed, so it felt like a sign.

I was inspired to write a book.

It was called More Than Enough- Finding Completion at the Feet of Jesus.

Then I spent two and a half years living on a bus, and a lot of things changed, including the name of my book. It became Finger Paintings and Truckee Sunrises- The Beautiful, Messy Adventure Of a Surrendered Life.

My awesome 2005 graphic design skillz

I’d sit in the front on the steps of the bus, looking out the glass doors at the road going by, my trusty old beast of a Dell on my lap, type-type-typing away.

I thought it was awesome. It wasn’t.

I read it now, and my first reaction is, “Dear Lord, I was a weirdo. And I have the spelling of a fourth grader.”

I was a little legalistic, I guess. A little naive. A little intense. But I appreciate my passion.

I went to Writing School in 2007 bound and determined to be the next Donald Miller- only female.

But life would happen as life happens, I got busy backpacking in China and Central America, and I never pursued publishing it. Instead I self-published a collection of poetry, originally to raise money to go live in Kyrgyzstan.

Now, I am so glad I didn’t publish Finger Paintings or move to Kyrgyzstan.

Honestly, my beliefs changed over the next few years about things that would have been “written in stone” had I attempted to get it out for the masses to read.

Who knows, maybe all young writers have that issues as they leave their early twenties and began to figure out what they believe and who they are…

Maybe all people do.

I mean, written words they stick around. Does that scare anyone else?

The sheer power in publishing… You can’t go back and re-edit or recant what you said.

(Which is why I am reading this post over for the tenth time even though I am tired and probably going to miss several typos I never see until I after I press publish. I apologize in advance.)

I am not saying I hate everything I wrote before.

I know we all grow as we learn our voice and what we want to put words to.

I am not saying I need to have everything in order before I publish, obviously you can tell by this blog I am not a perfectionist.

However, I don’t really feel like the same person I was. Not that I didn’t like her, but I like me better.

I guess the thing that mostly annoys me about that nineteen-year-old zealot self, is that while some words were genuine, many were just regurgitated rhetoric that she was taught…

And I realize, I’d rather write worthless garbage and have it be true, then be on a best-seller by faking it.

When I say true, I don’t mean non-fiction. I am actually writing a fiction book, and realizing that fiction can be truer than non-fiction, in a sense that every good story should portray universal truth.

What I mean is, if it’s not truly me, I don’t want to put it out there.

It’s like what my friend and co-author of The Wizard of God always reminds me, “You don’t need to make anything up. You’ve lived this. Write what you know.”

So that’s my new purpose in writing. Be honest. Write what I know.

Write like it’s what is going to be inscribed on my tombstone.

Write like I have one chance to tell the world what matters.

Write like It’s the only thing I’ll do that’s ever going to mean anything.

Write like I am not afraid anymore.

Because the truth inevitably sets people free, including the person writing it.

Now I am going to share a blip from that old manuscript of Finger Paintings.

This is honest. It still is something I believe, something I actually need to remember…

Maybe I should stop being so self-conscious and start being God conscious.  I look at my flaws and insecurities and fears and imperfection and then I try to find a remedy to fix myself. I got to a point a few months ago where I was so overwhelmed by the mess that was my insides.

Sometimes I feel like a finger painting: mismatched colors, random shapes, and scribbles. Others see it and don’t quite know what to make of it. They squint, trying to categorize it, trying to decipher the unknown language.

My heart is a lot like that. Vibrant. Messy. Colorful. All over the place.

Like a proud parent, God looks at this mess and calls it a masterpiece. He seems the abstract emotion. He sees the purpose behind each abnormally shaped line, each hue. He sees the picture hidden among the scribbles. He puts it on His fridge and calls it beautiful.

I got to the point I couldn’t take myself anymore. I was in Truckee, California at the time, a small scenic town near Tahoe. I was staying at a beautiful cabin with five amazing girls, but I just needed to get away. One morning I got up when it was still dark and braved my way into the frosty mountain air. I made my way up the road and across a field to the edge of a cliff that overlooked a small valley. The sun was just beginning to slowly peek over the mountains in the distance. I sat on a cold bench on the edge of the cliff and watched the fog lift over the towering pines and the sky turn a brilliant shade of pink. It was there in Northern California I decided something for the first time.

I am done trying to figure myself out. 
I am way too complicated.
I will lose all that I am, and throw everything into who He is. 
Because He is more than enough.   

I see the journey I’ve been on and I can’t help but smile.
There will be many more miles and many more words.
Many more attempts at being honest.
Many more cliffs and sunrises.
Many more books.
Thank you, dear blog reader,  for coming on this journey with me.

Dry Toast, Distractions, and Racing Deer

31 Jan

You may be here because you can’t possibly fathom how anyone can write a blog post with a title like that.

And  I am here trying to write something.  Anything.

I’ve been feeling bone-dry lately.

Sometimes writing is an overwhelming spring of revelation and glorious thoughts, bubbling up out of “The Brook(e)” within me.

Sometimes, it’s more like scrapping the bottom of an old smelly yellow tub of “I Can’t Believe You Think This Tastes Like Butter.”

Thoughts thinly spread on dry toast with a dull knife, barely giving it any flavor or moisture.

My mind becomes fragmented, everything is rushed. My consciousness becomes split, no longer whole but the world seen via blips of images, tweets and half-finished sentences.

I don’t know how to st———-.

Is it just the world we are liv———-?

Did I develop ADD or am I just going cra——– Oh my gosh, I hear a donkey outside!

Today I went for a walk. It was gorgeous out, but I hardly took  it in because I was thinking of the googling jobs in Fort Worth, or changing the banner of website for the book I’ve been writing.

(I did both by the way. No jobs yet, but here is the site. I had to put a little promotion in here.)

What a shame. What a shame I didn’t notice how vividly green the grass is for it being the last day of January.

What a shame I didn’t notice the lone baby donkey staring at me from the other side of a fence, wondering who I was and why I was walking down his road.

What a shame my mind was so scattered I forgot to stop and see  the sunset, to let the colors melt over me and seep inside of me and change me, maybe giving me some consistency, some flow of thought, some together-ness.

I am so sick of being distracted. Distracted from beauty. Distracted from LIFE.

When your mind is in multiple places, you can’t take everything in. You can’t be still and know, you can’t realize how much magic is in the day.

Oh, distraction is the devil!

The other morning I was driving to work.

(This sounds like normal sentence. But the fact I am driving to work is an anomalous thing for me. My last job, I rode my bike to work. Not because I am a hipster, but because I really couldn’t afford a car. Now I have one, although it’s like this strange purple/grey/maroon color. I digress.)

I was driving to work down a winding country road and my mind was full of random thoughts of things to do, worrying about my finances, etc, etc. blah blah blah.

Distractions. 

I decided to talk to God, briefly.

(I love the line from the poem  ”The Vision”  “Our feeble half-whispered, faithless prayer.” I often feel those are the only prayers I can pray.)

“Help me

to see

all the beauty

around me…

Like a child.”

Done. That’s it.  That’s as “spiritual”  as I get lately.

( And to think I used to intercede for the nations until my sweat turned to blood. Ok, not really.)

And then, as my prayer ended,  a deer jumped in front of me.

I stopped.

I wasn’t in danger of hitting him, really. I was going slow enough.

We stared at each other for a moment.

I managed to get this photograph

I managed to get this photograph

Then, he bounded the rest of the way across the road, leapt over fence that had to be at least 6 feet tall, and proceeded to frolic down a path running parallel with the road.

“Race you!” I said out loud, laughing uncontrollably, feeling like a psycho, but letting it all go.

I slowed down to make it a fair race, until I was going the same speed as Mr. Deer.

And we traversed side-by-side for a while, I in my funny colored car, and Mr. Deer free in the wild.

Then he disappeared into the forest. He had apparently won.

And I was left feeling somewhat like Lucy after she met Mr. Tumnus for the first time.

Feeling something like clarity.

Like my scattered worries disappeared quickly as drops of dew in the morning sun, leaving no trace.

I felt a little like I could see,

The grass. The baby donkey. The sunset. The deer.

I could listen,

to the something going around all around me,

outside my computer screen, outside my head,

Something called life.

The Struggle Between The Tree And The Wind

6 Jan

Am I the only one that feels this tension, this pulling within?

I am so afraid of being grounded, yet at times it’s what I want more than anything.

I decided, years ago, I’d rather be a wanderer.

But lately I feel old.

Lately I want to take my belongings out of storage.

Lately I want to live somewhere where I can build a home.

I know these thoughts are ok but sometimes I hate them.

I hate the thought of being stuck.

I  think, “I used to be wild and free.”

But no one is putting chains on me but me.

(This is me surviving.Walking, pacing, watching the sky change.)

I always tell people to embrace these  seasons of coming and going, of no strings attached.

It’s not like I have a family to take care of.

It’s not like I even have a job where I am stuck in one place.

(But oh at times, how green the grass seems anywhere else.)

I am 26 and no more sure than I was 10 years ago.
But I am ready for life to not be about me.

So I tell myself I can follow my passion.
I can live in abundance…

Wait….. I do.
I do live in abundance.
I have so much beauty, love, people. I am doing what I love, too.

Someone from New England asked me last night if I just love living in Texas.

After 8 years I could say honestly that I do.
(Trust me, even forming those words is an act of rebellion to my vagabond soul.)

I used to count my days by the places I went.
I relished living out of a suitcase.

I dreamed of endless places and people and possibilities.
It was never easy but it was worth the freedom I felt.

Have I gotten so comfortable?
Have I fallen into desiring normal instead of living an adventure?

Those things that were so intertwined in the fabric of my being, being reminded over and over that it’s not only ok not to know, but I’d rather not, cause

“Life is better off a mystery.”

So I can be free.
Every day can be magical
It’s all up to me.

I ask myself,

“Can I be a tree or can I be the wind?”

The answer is,

“Both.”

“When did I lose it?” I ask, fearing the worst.

The answer is,
“Never.”

Twenty-Eleven, In Moments.

1 Jan

The morning came in subtly with shades of amber hues, contradicting the brilliant neon hues of the sunset.

And I think maybe some things come in softly and slowly and go out with a ferocious bang.

And vise versa. Because sometimes ends and beginnings blur together.
2011 felt  like an ordinary year, but it wasn’t.

I took a motorcycle class, got my website hacked by a terrorist, found out my niece has leukemia, biked down a mountain in Virginia, and wrote more the I have ever written.

I have had many wonderful and weird and bad experiences this year. I am going to focus on the good. Because life happens in moments, I will reflect that way.

Dear Sparky and Mermaid, you are indeed shining beacons of awesomeness in my life.

Working for Pais Project was more than just a job. I loved it, even the difficult moments. I met some great people, learned a ton, and was able to be a part of  writing the book, “The Cloud and the Line.” I was there for so many reasons, and when it was time to go it was bittersweet.

I love these guys. I had so much fun working with them. I don’t have a picture of everyone, but I loved my boss and coworkers as well as the people at Lakehouse Church. It was a good year in Arlington.

Vacationing in the Florida Keys with my favorite people was one of the most unexpected blessings and great adventures of my year. My dad was also there (he was taking the picture.)

What a magical place. It was a time of grace. The best vacation of my life. I am so thankful for Steve, who made all this happen.

I did a lot of cooking at my apartment in Arlington. My favorite part of living there was all the amazing Asian and Middle Eastern food. I walked to the Halal supermarket and bought fresh meat, produce and curry.

2011 was the year of really becoming a writer. I typed out a book for my boss at Pais, started writing freelance for  SEO and Social Networking companies, and of course, co-wrote the  “The Wizard of God.” I  also won a poetry contest and was nominated for a Pushcart prize.

I had the privilege of road-tripping with my man up to New England to see my family. We spent a fun day exploring New York City.

I love this picture of my parents and my brother Robert.

Water wars with my nephew Tre.

Hanging out in Portsmouth with my beautiful sister Terra.

Boston! One of my favorite cities.

In the fall I lived in North Carolina for three months. It was a sweet time. I read a lot. I became pretty reclusive, but it ended up being a good thing. I wrote a book. I still can’t get over that.

I saw some great concerts in North Carolina including One Republic,

John Mark McMillan, Michael Gungor,

and of course, The Civil Wars.

We saw them right after we finished writing the book.

It was a great ending to an amazing year.

Steve, Becca and I at the Biltmore in NC.

I am thankful for this year. It has been challenging as all years are, but I feel like I have grown a lot and seen a lot of things come to pass.

Favorites of 2011

Albums-

Josh Garrels- Love and War and the Sea Between

Katie Herzig- The Waking Sleep

Movies:

The Tree of Life

Midnight In Paris

TV Shows-

Pan Am

New Girl

Books-

All Is Grace, Brennan Manning

Trail of Crumbs, Kim Sunee

And now… onward.

Part B: The Redemption of Jekyll & Hyde

22 Dec

This time of year everything is magnified.

All of the year seems to come to a head.

The good done.

The bad that still exists.

The ugliness of consumerism.

The beautiful idea of gifts given with no strings attached.

(Is that possible? Can a gift really be a gift? Can we, who thrive within a system of reward and punishment, truly understand grace?)

This Christmas, It would be good to acknowledge that I have no love outside of the love of God in me.

My attempts are always rooted in self-gratification.

There are no naturally pure motives.

I cannot give without wanting to be given back to in return, or to have people see my gift and think I am a good person.

I cannot love without desiring that person to make me feel good, to fulfill my emotions, to boost my ego.

I cannot even write without wanting people to read these words and think of me as spiritual and humble.

The truth is, I am selfish to the core.

I look out for number one.

I see myself as apart from others, as capable of creating my own world around myself.

Me, left to my own doing, will destroy myself.

There is no love in me.

…………………wait………………………..

It doesn’t stop there……….

The tables have been turned.

I am not left alone to destroy myself.

By an insane grace I cannot even begin to express through my writing,

I have been saved,

from myself.

from the wretched and lonely idea I have to make it on my own.

from the disgusting belief disguised as religious piety that I can somehow conjure up some kind of love, some kind of godliness.

And that, that is my new reality.

At times I feel split, a regular Jekyll and Hyde.

Image by Jean-Thomas Louvier

How could I taste such Pure Love one moment and such bitter humanness the next?

How could a vessel so filthy be filled with a Spirit so pure?

I know myself, I know my motives, I know my deep dark hidden thoughts.

(But they are known greater by Someone greater.)

This christmas, it would do me good to remember there is nothing good in me apart from Christ,

but I am not apart from Him.

That’s where the story continues.

It doesn’t stop in my own pain, my own grossness.

It isn’t the truth because maybe you are impressed I am being this self-deprecating, this vulnerable.

(Even that can be another boost to my ego. Ewww.)

It doesn’t end at a realization of my own poverty.

I can’t just believe God to be everything and me nothing, it can’t end there.

Or I will stay in the gutter.

I’ll never be the person God made me to be.

I’ll never be Jesus to the world.

You see, the end of the story matters just as much as the beginning.

Part A:

I once was lost.

I once was blind.

Part B:

But now I am found.

But now I see.

This is the grand paradox, the tension we all live within.

We come from dust and return to dust.

We are poor, filthy, wretched beings,

and somehow

We are light,

We are glorious eternal creatures.

We are unstoppable, indescribable beauty.

Because

He came.

He walked.

He loved.

He died.

He lives in us.

So we could realize our nothingness in ourselves and our everythingness in Him.

This is it.

This is my story.

This is my song.

This is Christmas.

10 Impossible Things Before Breakfast

20 Dec

There are mornings I wake up and immediately believe two lies:

1. That today is just another day.
2. That I am jut an ordinary human being.

I forget:
1. I am breathing. Life itself is a miracle.
2. I am a hero on a journey.
3. Everything is mine, because it was given to me.

I want to believe these impossible things before breakfast.
And the list continues:

4. All things worth having are a gift.
5. I already have everything that everyone is searching for.
6. Nothing is worth more than this day.
7. Epic stories are in me, waiting to be told.
8. I am loved extravagantly, I with all my counted flaws I stupidly keep track of in the darkened mirror.
9. Everything is finished. The struggle is believing that.

Speaking of number 7, all this feels like a fairy tale at times, a place like Narnia or Middle Earth or Oz, like falling deeper down the rabbit hole or taking the red pill.

Can I believe in what seems to be a story? Or is it that the stories tell a greater Truth that our world can’t grasp?

What is the reason these stories seem more alive than our “mundane” lives?
Why do they resound so deeply within our broken frames?

Could it be because they are the way we understand The Story?

And so I bring you number 10:

10. God came as a human infant; bloody and screaming, into a dark stable reeking of manure. He grew, walked among us, healed the sick, mended the broken, tore down the old system of religion, ate with the whores and criminals, loved all. He was murdered and came to life, defeating death forever, giving us the greatest gift: himself (true life) to all who believe.

Because of #10, because I am a character in This Book, I can believe the other 9 impossible things before breakfast.

The Beauty of Creative Collaboration

10 Dec

It’s my last night in North Carolina. I am sitting in the black office chair for the last time. I have practically lived in this chair for the past three months.

I written over 90,000 words in this chair.

But I didn’t do it by myself. Never in a hundred lifetimes would I have dreamed I would have written a novel like The Wizard of God. 

The beauty of this book is that it is a collaboration.

It is the product of the stories of those who have been on a journey of looking for Jesus in the midst of some  religious road blocks, of those who have found themselves as beggars welcomed in to eat at the King’s table. It’s a story of people, coming together and discovering grace.

And that is my story, our story.

Thursday night I finally saw The Civil Wars in concert. I wrote the epilogue of the book the day before, and it was a wonderfully timed celebration.

The opening band, Milo Greene completely blew me away. I was expecting some singer songwriter dude, but it was a full band. Four lead singers, each of them with incredibly unique voices, all of them playing multiple instruments, switching on and off, intertwining, harmonizing, to create this melodic audibly mesmerizing sound.

I whispered to Becca,

“Man, each one of them could be a successful act on their own!”

But I was glad they were not.

In a world that makes art a competition, it is nothing short of a miracle to see talented people with different voices coming together to make create a diverse symphony.

And then came Joy Williams and John Paul White. Never have I been so glad of musicians joining together.

In all the reviews and articles I have read about The Civil Wars, the one thing that strikes every listener is the marriage of their voices. Listening, watching them is something very hard to describe.

It was spiritual, the way their voices carried, lifted and lowered, danced around each other, settled.

Pure magic. A wild blending of talents that turns into something so free yet so smooth.

Ah, the beauty of creative collaboration.

When we partake in such things, I am convinced we are looking through a peephole into the another Kingdom.

That’s it, isn’t it?

What we want. Why we get the shivers. What feels right. The happy ending.

Togetherness.

Coming with our own voice, or own words, our own story, our substance one ingredient to make a delicious bread that will leave the world satisfied. 

To know we are part to a body. We all long for it.

So much of art (I could replace “art” with “my existence”) has been about selfishness, arrogance mixed with self-deprecation, some sort of weird creative person self-loathing-elitism. (seloathistim??)

We call it individualism, independence, other words that sound responsible and American. Yet we end up in misery when we try to go at life alone. We call it being a moody artist, survival of the fittest or whatever, yet we lose so much when we compare, compete, push aside people to try to succeed so we can see our names shine in a fading spotlight.

I don’t think that’s joy. I think that’s misery and loneliness.

Joy is knowing we are a part of the whole. A unique, beautiful part, but a part none-the-less.

Joy is knowing we need each other.  

It’s understanding we are all made of the same stuff, and the things about us that are different are not to be feared or hated, but celebrated and made into art.

It’s closing your eyes and being lifted by the sound of music and voices whirling into one, making sense of what emotions can’t spell out.

It’s sitting in a room with people and letting the spirit flow, letting each person bring a piece to a puzzle that’s larger than any one soul, to go on a journey that could never happen alone.

When I think back to my crazy three months writing a book in North Carolina, this is what I will remember, and smile.

Help “All Things Become New” For My Niece Sierra

28 Nov

Sierra Luby

This darling girl is my *almost* two-year-old niece, Sierra.

She is one of twin girls, born to my brother and sister-in-law Davis and Mindy.

The (Other) Lubys- Mindy & Davis, AJ, Julia & Sierra

Sierra is special, and though I’ve only had the privilege of meeting her once, she holds and special place in my heart.

Sierra, like my younger brother Robert, was born with Down Syndrome.

And like Robert, she was diagnosed with Leukemia before she turned two.

One of the Best Guys I know

Thankfully, my brother is a perfect picture of health, happiness and just plain awesomeness! He turned 22 a few months ago.

My family is praying and believing the same thing for Sierra.

What Sierra Thinks of Hospital Food.

Sierra started treatment about a month ago and will be in the hospital for the next seven months. Family and friends out in Northern California where the Lubys live, are looking for ways to raise money to help meet the hospital bills that will soon pile up.

So from today on, if you buy my self-published book, a 75 page collection of poetry, All Things Are Becoming New, all proceeds will go to the Luby family to help with Sierra’s medical bills.

It’s only $7 and available through create space by clicking the link above. 50% of that money goes straight to the print-on-demand company to actually make the book, and 50% will go to Sierra.

If you already have my book or hate poetry or just want to give more, you can do so directly through paypal by clicking here. 

Thank you so much, and thank you for all your prayers.

Here is an excerpt Mindy wrote from her Caring Bridge Journal recently.

All Smiles

Sierra makes such an impression on people… even after they leave pediatrics and head off to some other department, they  are still keeping up on her status in the hospital medical record computer.  Their reaction to seeing her is hilarious (for lack of a better word).  After they have read about what’s going on and how her blood counts look they expect to come see poor sick little Sierra laying in her crib looking pitiful… instead they are greeted by a smiling, waving, up and walking around, trying to escape the room, Sierra.  Thank goodness everybody has fallen in love with her… with my regularly-scheduled melt downs and freak-outs I’m certain we would have been kicked out of here by now if it wasn’t for her.  She even melts the hearts of the other kids… there’s a little boy (he’s 3 years old) and I see him all the time when I go out into the hallway.  He’s not in isolation like Sierra, so he goes outside of his room and walks the hallways… I always wave and smile and say hi to him… he stares at me and never cracks even the smallest of smiles.  Today he and his dad were walking past our room, he looked in and saw Sierra waving at him and he smiled and waved and stood there and watched Sierra for the longest time.  I wish she could go visit with the other kids, I just know she would make them feel better. 

Click on the link below and for the twin ultimate cuteness! (You have the watch the whole thing, it’s so worth it when they start to laugh)

http://www.facebook.com/v/1582504373936

Thanksgiving Dinner With Perfect Strangers

24 Nov

Today I had thanksgiving with a family I don’t even know. I was unsure about it before hand. I text my friend Mere and said it was going to be awkward. She said “Awkward makes for the best stories!” She is wise. So I decided to write about it.

It’s not like I didn’t know anyone. I know the grandma, my temporary next-door neighbor, a spunky lady with red wire-rimmed glasses nicknamed by her kids and grandkids “Ba-poo.”

I walked in and was immediately welcomed with hands, drinks, open arms, questions, jokes, a tour of the beautiful home and introductions and explanations of “who’s who” in the tangled family tree.

“TEXAS?! You’re from TEXAS!? Honey, come here!”

I was hugged tightly by a (Texan) daughter-in-law, finally feeling ok with saying that’s where I am “from.”

As usual, it’s not always simple to explain who I am and what I am doing here.

“Technically, I was born in California but I grew up in New Hampshire but I’ve lived in Texas eight years.”

“What part??”

“East… near Tyler… then near Dallas…”

“So what are you doing here?”

“Working on a book project…blah blah blah explain, explain  la la la.”

“Oh like ghostwriting?”

“Umm sort of… kind of like a collaboration…”

This repeated many times throughout the evening.

I could barely keep track of  who I was meeting,  but I can’t keep track of my own life either and somehow it all works out.

A few drinks in and it didn’t matter. Then the food came.

Sitting at a table together, barriers come down.

It didn’t matter I didn’t know anyones dreams and desires, or even the favorite band of the twenty-one year old next to me or whether he believes in God. We both thought it is damn good cheesy corn casserole and in the moment, that’s what mattered.

It didn’t matter they had been through weddings, births, deaths, divorces, years and miles with each other and I came into their world thirty minutes ago, they accepted me as a human being.

And don’t forget football. Nothing brings people together (especially in the South) like football. Though I feel estranged from that world, like a bored alien observing a foreign planet where men in spandex run around with a ball and people scream,  I could at least relate to the fact the venue they played in was ten minutes down the road from where my old apartment was.

The conversation continued over touch-downs and three types of stuffing and two types of turkey and too much gravy.

“So what’s your book about?”

“Ummm…. well, it’s like… blah blah blah and then sort of like blah blah ‘loosely based’ on The Wizard of Oz.’ Mumble, mumble, na na. Yes.”

Or something like that.

Ok, so maybe I ate and drank too much to make sense, or maybe I never do anyway. Maybe I love the fact it doesn’t take a simple sentence to explain my life.

I  got a bit misty-eyed when I looked around at the love this family had for each other, laughed hysterically at the anecdotes about other years when the cat’s tail caught on fire, and I stifled a giggle when the seven-year old said the blessing,

“And I pray for the pilgrims…. even though they are dead…”

Though I was far from people who really know me (besides my dear friend Becca) it didn’t matter. Because there is something raw and real and beautiful and maybe a little messy about sitting down at a table to eat with perfect strangers on a holiday that is all about friends and family, only to walk away feeling completely satisfied in my stomach and in my heart.

And finally, here are some points of gratitude as of lately…. 

Soundtrack of my life lately: Katie Herzig & Josh Garrells.

Watching Hulu with Becca after a long day.

Memoirs. Brennan Manning’s in particular.

Spinach. (I put it in everything, can’t get enough)

The miracle of writing one more chapter.

Spontaneous Sushi lunches with Steve.

Modge-Podge.

Watching the leaves fall off the trees as I walk around the neighborhood.

Laying on the swing-bench just to look up at the sky and breathe.

Yoga to wake up.

Jean-Thomas randomly calling throughout the day.

That I get to see The Civil Wars finally in two weeks.

That I get to go (home) to Texas in two and a half weeks.

Knowing this book will be completed.

Jesus… all He is… the beauty all around me He is continually opening my sleepy eyes to see….

What if Grace was so thick it hung in the air like a dense fog? With every breath you breathe in pure Grace, there is no distance, no lack, no barrier. You couldn’t take in a breath without filling your lungs with Pure Life. 

This is exactly the way it is…

(Steve Roy)

A Handful of Crumbs- Thoughts on Grace & Identity

18 Nov

I picked up this memoir by Kim Sunee, “Trail of Crumbs” partially because the cover was pretty, partially because it was on clearance for $5, but mostly because of the subtitle,

“Hunger, Love and the Search for Home.”

That subtitle could just as well describe the book I am currently working on, “The Wizard of God.”

Anyways, it’s a beautiful and intriguing life story. Kim was abandoned on a bench in South Korea when she was three, left with nothing but a fistful of crumbs to survive on. She sat there for three days until a policeman finally brought her to an orphanage where she was adopted by an American couple.

Fast forward many years. Kim meets a wealthy French businessman man who is charming and wonderful and gives her everything she has ever wanted. I was swept into the beauty of their life together, living in the countryside of France in a huge house surrounded by orchards and gardens. Kim cooks these fabulous dinner parties for traveling guests, exquisite combinations that made me long for new food and new places. Her lover bought her a building in Paris to open her own book store that specializes in poetry. There she meets fascinating artists and writers from all over the world. Her life seemed ideal. A fairy tale. She came from nothing, and was given everything.

And it wasn’t just money. He loved her too. Passionately,  in a way that made all their friends jealous.

That would seem like the end of the perfect story, right?

No. she couldn’t do it. She couldn’t stay. She left him and threw everything she had away.

Why? Two reasons stuck out in my mind.

After being abandoned as a child, and growing up in an American family that was emotionally distant, she traveled to try to “find herself,” find a place where she belonged.

She thought she could find herself in a man, in this group of friends who were built around her in France, but it wasn’t enough.

She needed the one she came from to give her an identity.

The other reason was, in her lack of knowing who she was, in her struggling with abandonment and rejection, when offered the wonderful gifts of not only a beautiful life, but the heart of a loving man, she felt like she didn’t deserve it.

It’s impossible to accept grace when we don’t know who we are.

She was left in this world with nothing but a handful of crumbs, and so that’s what she built her identity around. She tried to get professional help, but it never subsided the ache. The more her lover lavished expensive and beautiful gifts on her, the more empty she felt.

I am not trying to psychoanalyze this woman specifically. The reason I write about her story in particular because as I was reading it I was struck with the idea that is perhaps the human condition.

We were born into this world with nothing, naked and screaming. We are often left with nothing more than a handful of crumbs, a few grains of rice, pieces we try to put together to make a life for ourselves, to create a home and a family, to find a sense of belonging.

A little boy in a slum in Chennai India, getting his one meal of the day.

Some of us find grace, find God.

We see He is not angry, we see He has given us good things. But often the more He gives, the harder it is to accept. That sense of debt that was established sometime in the losing of our innocence surfaces.

“Who am I to deserve this?”

The question can really be edited, cut in half, leaving the first three words for us to contend with,

“Who am I?”

It’s easy to see the brokeness, the tragic mistakes we’ve made, the reasons we were left with nothing.

It’s a lot harder to see who we really are:

Sacred, beautiful, works of art.

“It is our light  not our darkness that most frightens us.”

C.S Lewis said it this way in The Weight of Glory, 

“It is a serious thing to live in a society of possible gods and goddesses, to remember that the dullest and most uninteresting person you talk to may one day be a creature which, if you saw it now, you would be strongly tempted to worship…There are no ordinary people. You have never talked to a mere mortal.”

So, what then?

Is there some simple formula? Do we do like this awesome girl and repeat in the mirror every morning convincing ourselves that we are really wonderful people?

I love this video. Yet, there are  not enough magic words to overcome a lifetime of feeling we are unworthy.

There can never be enough people telling you how brilliant or fabulous you are, when your  inner voice that tells says you will never be enough.

It is only in the opening of our ears to hear the whispers of The One who created, the only one with the right to tell us who we are. It is only in believing that we are free

To quote Lewis again,

“And that is enough to raise your thoughts to what may happen when the redeemed soul, beyond all hope and nearly beyond belief, learns at last that she has pleased Him whom she was created to please. There will be no room for vanity then. She will be free from the miserable illusion that it is her doing. With no taint of what we should now call self-approval she will most innocently rejoice in the thing that God has made her to be, and the moment which heals her old inferiority complex forever will also drown her pride… Perfect humility dispenses with modesty.”
― C.S. Lewis, The Weight of Glory

We may see ourselves as having only a handful of crumbs, but there is a veil that has been ripped and beyond that, there is a feast we can sit down and partake in anytime we like.

Once we see this feast, once we understand we are no longer slaves but sons and daughters, we can invite the whole world to come, sit, and dine.

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