Maybe

Maybe it doesn't matter that I can't capture my heart with words. Maybe the heart is meant to surpass the mind, and to try to balance them on the same scale is like trying to level the bottom of a well with the surface of the earth, and then keep the water from spilling over into puddles.

Maybe if the heart causes groanings too deep for words, trying to speak the groans into cognisance will cause me to miss the pleasure of soaking in the deep. There are things too glorious for man to understand, and what causes us to grasp for it when it seems as fruitless as catching clouds? We talk ourselves in circles and after getting dizzy, after finding the tail is attached to our own behind, we start asking questions: the rhetorical, the theoretical, and logical. Gasping like a thirsty, salted sailor lost at sea--

Please...make...sense...

Maybe God is chuckling at us. Maybe his brow is creased and the corners of his eyes are tight because he is hurting, waiting, groaning with creation for the day when he can complete us, and maybe there will be no distinction between the top and bottom of a well. Maybe he is sighing because there is something better for us than understanding, and our trying to divine understanding is like trying to know your lifespan by the germy, crisscrossed lines on your palm.

Maybe trying to know it all is the part in us that tried to overthrow God in the Garden. Eat the fruit of understanding and maybe you will attain life. Maybe it is the part in us made in God's image and anticipating fulfillment. Maybe I will sit here all afternoon and scribble until my ink runs out, and sit back and reread my words and feel an ounce of satisfaction that I captured my inability to capture words so cleverly.

Maybe I will come close to knowing; maybe I could be Einstein or Decartes or Solomon and rise in the estimation of men. Maybe I am meant to fly, but I keep getting tripped up on the runway. At the end of my surmising, all I have is maybe.


May you, being rooted and grounded in love, know the love of Christ that surpasses all knowledge so that you may be filled with all the fullness of God. Eph. 3

Froth

     The steamer hisses like a defensive cat, spitting froth up the sides of the metal pitcher. I pull the nozzle up gently and the foaming milk eases. For my third shift, the froth isn’t too shabby. I tap the espresso scoop to loosen the old grounds, refill and tamp the fine powder, crank the scoop and watch the filmy stream of coffee gurgle into the cup.

It's still a little surreal to be on this side of the counter. I was always the girl with the book bag, studying at the corner table, watching the baristas steam milk and drizzle chocolate, wearing plaid shirts and sipping coffee from ceramic mugs they probably molded themselves. It seemed so romantic. Probably too romantic to be true, I thought, and lowered my eyes to my book.

I tap the froth with a knife and pour milk into the espresso, topping it with two swaths of the white fluff; cap it and embrace with a Christmas paper sleeve, and relinquish the creation to its owner. Someone wants a soy latte, so I have to use the other steamer, which is fickle and likes to screech like a toddler who doesn’t know what she wants.

It’s a lot like me, actually. For many years my heart felt like gasket about to blow. It bubbled and churned with unpredictable undercurrents, until the pressure pitched at a too-high temperature and issued a shriek of frustration. Anyone standing nearby became the collateral of the spewed, scalding contents. My heart’s fickle mechanism made me flighty, flitting from one job to alight on another. One relationship to another. I didn’t know how to fix it, so I ignored it, and continued sitting at the corner table.

It was probably too romantic to be true, anyway.

The door opens, ushering in a gust of cold air and a familiar face. It’s Eli, a friend from church, here to get a cup of coffee from the new barista. Do I really get to call myself that? That privileged title claimed only by trendy, pottery-making, espresso-sipping college students in plaid shirts? I am grateful to him for coming. It’s physical evidence that I’m starting to belong. In the same way Dena asks when my shift is, and my writing friends meet at the corner table. In the same way Beth asks me to help her make sandwiches, and Han and I fill the backroom with laughter when I mess up counting tills.

Each one a safe nest for my flighty heart to rest.

Snow drifts outside the window and I shake candy cane bits onto drifts of whipped cream. In my typical impulsiveness I applied for this job and had my interview the next day. But before applying, I asked God what he thought. I think you will love it, he replied. It’s truly romantic, having a place to rest and hearts to belong to. Especially when the place smells like coffee and baked goodness, and God has fixed your fickle mechanism, and the hearts you belong to are teaching you how to froth correctly.

This Curiosity Called Pain

I’ve been contemplating this driving force of nature that simultaneously wrenches the earth and fuses it together. Pain, an anomaly that both constructs the heart into a watchtower and shrinks it into a hardened lump of matter until all that matters is the pain.

I know a man who drowns himself at the bottom of a bottle because of his pain.

I know a woman who is wounded with barbs, but instead of plucking them out so she may heal, she bristles like a porcupine to ward off future barbs.

You can get sucked into despair like a black hole and turn endlessly with no gravity to pull you back to ground.

 

I’ve been thinking that the solution to pain is not its absence, but hope. Hope, also an anomaly, is some sense of tangible intangibility that the pain will end. Pain becomes your greatest foe when there is not hope, because when pleasure is sucked from your surroundings and you are left with hopeless pain, what else is left to do but check out, or drink, or put a gun to your head?

 

I am grappling with my own pain. I let it in by the lake, when the sun glittered on the water and my eyes stung with tears and cold wind, and somehow I knew it would lead me to wholeness. Right now it follows me around, riding shotgun while I drive, keeping me awake at night, hovering while I clean and ever-looking for moments to thrust darts at my heart.

It’s been a long time since I experienced pain like this, but I embrace it afresh, because it makes me feel alive. It doesn’t make me grow resilient, or feel diminished. Rather, it heightens my awareness of the blood running through my veins, the throbbing of my heart.

Why does pain make me aware that I am living? Why do I feel a strange sense of thriving amidst it?

I’ve been surmising that the reason I have never been to the hole of despair is because of an eternal hope burning in my belly, a ball of light that never goes out, of which pain can never loom large enough to snuff. I’ve been imagining a world where pain didn’t exist, a world prior to sin’s birth. Pain was never the intention of God. He promises to come back and restore us to the perfection of Eden, to conquer pain with finality. I think this must be the eternal hope.

I stopped thinking. I asked Jesus why I feel alive in pain, why it doesn’t make me want to die.

You always say that where there is life, there I am. The life you feel in pain is me.

Of course. Isn’t that the first thing I do in my pain, cry out to God to come to me? I never realized, all those times I encountered pain, that he came to be in it. Life. Hope.

I am musing about a God who comes to dwell in my pain. Jesus, after all, is not unacquainted with it. He is the life in my sorrow of this world, and the hope of a world restored.

When You Grow Whiskers

I'm munching a carrot on the deck, reading a book in the sunshine when a young man comes out the front door of the neighbor's house. He's wearing read skinny jeans and has a backpack and a Gatorade, and looks at me as he comes down the steps.

I'm crunching the carrot like a horse because my jaw's gone a little slack, but I can't think of anything to say, so I just stare at him over the top of my book.

Connor? I want to blurt out, but it sounds rude even in my head. More what I want to say is, You have whiskers! but that's hardly any better.

He swigs from his Gatorade and heads down the street.

I sit for a full three minutes trying to mentally fill in a ten-year gap. Last time I saw Connor he was six years old. I was ten, the dirty, barefooted neighbor girl who would build forts in the forest behind the house and make slip 'n slides with a tarp and hose. Of all the boys on the block, Connor invited me to his sixth birthday party at Bunker Beach, where we crashed into each other's tubes in the wave pool and ate string cheese and drank juice boxes. His family moved away then, and only just came back to the house because his great-grandparents died.

And now he has whiskers!

I sit and muse about what a funny thing life is, but hardly get anywhere before another past-life friend is passing on the other side of street. Carl, wearing black socks to his calves and a shirt with a math symbol, was always a rather awkward kid who wore capes and built Legos with my brother Freeman. His family went to the church where my dad pastored. Anytime I see his mother at the grocery store or the library, I try to dodge her, because she talks so much. Mostly about her children, like which math class Carl is in or which science project won in 4H at the fair, and I listen politely and watch Carl stare at his feet, wondering why she won't let him say all this for himself.

Just after Carl passes, Brogan pulls up from work, grabbing shoes from her trunk and texting simultaneously as she goes up the driveway. She doesn't notice me watching her, smiling for the twenty years of friendship she encapsulates. She hasn't reached the door when little Abby Burns comes walking home from school, only she isn't so little anymore, probably fourteen, with thick blonde hair hanging nearly to her yoga pants. I remember all the evenings spent in her basement with the neighborhood girls, dressing up in old dance costumes for fashion shows, or playing round of Truth or Dare--those dramatic years of youth that were so feeling and so fear-filled.

Those were the years where we did not know our hearts, and our hearts were dying to be known.

Now I see past lives pass on the street with barely a glance of acknowledgment, each person absorbed in their own little world, a world constructed by where they've been the last ten years, and where they hope to be in ten. I was thinking today about eternity set in our hearts. How restless I have felt, being home, and isn't that the human condition, to always want to be where you're not?

Because this is not home.
This is the ten-year gap that will one day come to a close, and you'll run into yourself and think, "You have whiskers!"
I'm trying to wrap my mind around eternity. The fact that from the moment of conception, I am. Forever.
I will always exist.
Whether here, or in heaven, or on the perfected earth, I will never cease to exist. It's so astonishing I can only think about it for about thirty seconds before I have to stop.

Then I think about how, because of Jesus, I get to live, not just exist, and that living is an echo of the real thing in Eden, and a foreshadowing of the real thing to come again.
And how you can't live without your heart.
And when you find your heart is the echo of a Father's heart, your life feels like you've been six all along only to wake up one morning and find you've grown whiskers, and there's no ten-year gap to fill in. I think that must be why Jesus calls it "born again."

I've reached the stub of my carrot. A man jogs by and waves at me. Mike, from church.

I grin and wave back.

This Is Love

Nearly two weeks ago I left the hot, humid plains of Texas for the tree-pocketed basins of Minnesota, glorious in all her October chill and rusty-red leaves. The sun glitters on ten thousand lakes and filters through golden trees like portals to other worlds.

Did you know the sun is different here? If it were a kiss, in Texas it is a harsh, passionate embrace that you can't escape. Here it is faint, more like the memory of a kiss on my cheek.

Coming home is a kiss hello, somewhere between the passionate and faint caress.

Do you know what I love about God? He is always stirring in me that wherever my heart is, wherever he is, that is home. Makes goodbyes joyful. And it makes hellos continual.

(Do you know what else I love about God? He is rest in the midst of chaos. Eight weeks in Texas, packing, driving, two weeks of family and friends, adventures of city excursions and apple picking, coffee dates and healing conversations, little time to sleep, and a pressing need to breathe.
Jesus, I need rest!
It's not in sleep.
Jesus, I need rest!
It's not in coffee and journaling on the porch.
Jesus, I need rest!
It's not even in heart conversations. It's only in my love. 
Okay. Okay.

I love that he loves to give me himself when my little world is a blur.)

Coming home, I discovered that I didn't trust God's love (this was why he brought me to Texas). There was also a fear in me that I did not love him. At one point I asked him why he waited until I was twenty to bring me into heart living. I have been in an environment my whole life to live this way--why wait until now?

You would not have believed me that I love you.

My heart stirred uncomfortably. I didn't want to admit that was true. But the evidence that I didn't believe his love was leaking out all over my life--I was going to other people, experiences, and adventure for life and affection. And it just wasn't satisfying.

When he told me bluntly that I didn't trust his love, my heart was in line with the old habits of legalism. I wanted to fix my heart as if I was a broken laptop that just needed the operating system reinstalled. I wanted to prove that I loved him by severing all the things that might steal my love away. That age-old struggle of loving the gifts more than the Giver. There Satan came in with the accusation, You love X, Y, and Z, so you don't love God.

God, what am I supposed to do?

Don't do anything. Sit with me.

I simultaneously hate and love that answer.

As it turned out, there wasn't any time to try to fix my heart in the busyness of being home. We brought two friends with us from Texas and adventured around the city all week. Another thing I love about God is that he is always tilling up my heart. When he knows I'm ready, he pokes me into the plowed earth and waters me with truth.

I told Dad about my discoveries, that God is everything I hoped he would be--despite my struggle with having no other god before me. He said that the new covenant changes everything about idolatry.

Repeatedly in the Old Testament, Israel prostitutes herself to idols because she simply doesn't trust that God is enough to satisfy her longing for love. There was one king--David--who led them out of idolatry, and even he fell short of the ideal king. Then his greater Son came as the fulfillment of that ideal, saving his people from idols and giving them a new heart and the Holy Spirit so that the deepest longing in their heart is to love God first.

There isn't even a question of idolatry.

You will know the truth and the truth will set you free. I was drowning in it. No one had ever confirmed to me that the deepest longing of my heart is to love God. But Satan had certainly latched onto and twisted that to convince me for ten years that I can't be free of an idolatrous lifestyle. Just before my dad spoke, he spoke in my head, "What you have to say doesn't matter." When I received the truth in my spirit, I felt him flee in anger, ten years of weaving an incomplete understanding unraveled in one truth.

I am walking with new freedom, new power, new joy. He has filled in all the cracks of my foundation. Words are something we use to ascribe meaning to an experience, and the words "God loves me" have never held meaning before. In the days that followed, I have felt a tangible, wonderful weight of that truth. Not just in my head, not even just in my heart. I can feel it physically, like I am a tree in the apple orchard, bowed beneath the weight of so many good things.

I asked God what it is.

This is love.

The Spirit that Preys

This week I was assuaged by a spirit of Fear. Fear to speak, mostly. God has been confirming from one person to another that I have something to offer while I’m here. The relationships I’m forming have sunk their roots deep, and for a while, I was amazed at how much everyone seemed to like me. The majority of them are trying to convince me to stay here permanently. I hadn’t “done” anything to get them to like me, so I guess it’s a testament to the freedom the Father has moved me into. It’s like his aroma is following me around, or his Spirit is hovering around me.

Teri told me she saw me across the volleyball court and thought, “I would like to know her.”

Lauren and I have gone to the deep places in a week’s time. She prophesied that I would be a place of rest and safety for people, that I am needed in the community.

Jordan prayed prophecy over me without knowing me.

Michael shook my hand, saying, “You seem to me to be a pillar.”

They perceive the Spirit in me and are responding to him in relationship.

Satan’s vendetta is against me speaking power, life, and freedom into hearts of those I have come to love. Every time I was in a group of more than two or three with things to say, my spirit tripped up somewhere around my tongue—like it was curling up on itself. Accompanied were whispers of, “Don’t say that, it’s not loving,” or “You don’t know if that’s the right answer, so don’t give it,” or “You are young in this life, how can you offer that?”

I was afraid to rebuke, afraid to disagree, afraid to give answers unless it was assuredly safe to do so.

I caved again and again, until I saw the pattern and rebuked the spirit, which left.

I was speaking again with courage and honesty, and moved on.

 

But the spirit didn’t. The night before last, my host Nate was awakened at 1:30 after a demonic dream in which he cast a spirit out. (For a little context, I had been having bad dreams all week, accompanied by two episodes of sleep walking.) He felt the presence of the spirit in the house, but wherever he went, he heard it flitting in another room. He thought about waking me up to see if I had been sleep walking again. He prayed against it and went back to bed, telling us about it in the morning. I was sobered by the reality of a demonic presence, but felt Nate’s handling of it adequate.  

Last night, the spirit entered me. I can’t remember what I was dreaming, but it was something power-related, because when the spirit swooped down on me, I thought I was receiving spiritual gifting. It went into my feet and traveled up my legs in to my chest, which expanded as it filled. My body was cold and tingled all over, felt light and heady.

I sat up and got out of bed.

I was existing in another dimension, between dream sleep and consciousness.

I was aware, but I wasn’t in control.

I couldn’t see the room, was looking at something else which I can’t remember. The closest thing I can think of to describe it is looking through an infra-red camera lens. Shifting shadows, some sepia color.

I realized the spirit inside me wasn’t from God when I felt its malicious intent. I felt evil and bent on destruction.  

Then I came to consciousness. The room materialized around me, coming into focus. I remembered I was sleeping in the guest room in the Petty’s house in Conroe, Texas.

Then I realized a demon had just left me.

It was Fear preying on me, and my whole body was trembling in a cold sweat. I used the light of my phone and went upstairs. The house felt dark and contaminated. I could sense the spirit flitting around the perimeter of the room. So paralyzed, I couldn’t even think straight to pray against it. I tapped on Nate and Emily’s door. Sent a text to Nate—Are you up?

The time was 1:45am.

Fear was telling me not to wake the men—let them sleep, it whispered, they are so tired.

My spirit’s countering whisper came faintly—don’t be stupid! This is serious. You need to wake them up.

I shook Elijah awake, on the verge of tears.

“Is it morning?”

“No.” My voice sounded thin and strained. “Elijah, I think I encountered that spirit Nate heard last night.”

He got up and guided me back to my room where I had barely finished telling him what I experienced when Nate came in. “Are you alright?”

“That spirit you heard attempted to take possession of me.”

I told it all over again.

And then they prayed. Back and forth, rebuking the spirit, rebuking sin and agreements and footholds and interactions and anything that opened doors for Satan, countering curses set against the household, the rooms and the people. They prayed a blood covering over each of us and Jesus’ resurrection power to cast out demons from the premises.

As they prayed, the fear ebbed and my courage mounted, and soon I was able to pray for myself, sealing off places where Satan had gained access, renouncing the fear, declaring that I have things to give.

We offered up our hearts to God, repenting of sin, and surrendering all the areas of our hearts we were withholding—consciously or not—from him.

Nearly an hour later, God told me it was safe to rest.

I sang hymns until I fell asleep, deeply and unencumbered.

My friend Lauren believes that the places you are most assaulted are the places where you are most gifted. She has encouraged me to take my ever-present, memorable dream life to God to find out if it is a gifting he would use to speak to me and speak to others. Satan has succeeded the last fifteen years in tricking me into thinking my dreams are all physiological/psychological, and it has always been a place of vulnerability to him.

But the power I have in Christ over his dominion is real and actively battling.

I have consecrated this post to the Lord—from glory to glory I and my words move, invisible to the forces of darkness. I pray you will be sobered and awakened to the reality of warfare, and will rejoice with me that we have been given authority over the power of the enemy (Lk. 10:19).

His reign in my sleep has come to an end.

 

Surprise Beginnings

If I had to pick one attribute of God that I love most, I would pick his love for surprise. He is lavish in it, especially when I let him. The past eight months have been riddled with surprise, as if every week is my birthday. He pops out with a gift, and—to use my friend’s simile—a chocolate cake, and then he ices the cake, and then he tops it with a candle. Such is my life.

I’m writing from Texas, by the way. Surprise! I was supposed to be here for six days, having hitch-hiked with a friend on his way down to a reunion, to visit another friend and his sister’s family. Three days before I’m scheduled to leave, my friend’s brother calls and asks,

“What are you doing the next two months? Want to stay and nanny the kids?”

Six days turned into a possible sixty. Surprise, indeed.

Though not at all to God, who had been orchestrating all the details into line long before the decision was made. Suddenly I was not working, was freed from church responsibilities, and had the remainder of the summer wide open to his plans.

“Go,” he told me.

There is much about Texan culture that is easy to love—the southern hospitality, the “ya’ll”s and “bless your heart”s, Texas BBQ, even the heat. (Less so the constant perspiring, cockroaches, and generally gargantuan insects.) What has been harder to adjust to is the Texas church culture, which seems to tip a scale from strait-jacket Southern Baptist to spirit-hopping charismatics. I have more experience with the latter, and it has been a struggle to discern who is acting/speaking in truth and who is not. Signs and wonders, healings, prophecy, speaking in tongues—it’s the new normal.

I met a guy the other day who speaks in tongues. He gave me the rundown of his own experience, and what the Bible has to say about it, and I believe he is genuinely walking with God and operating from the Holy Spirit. But he took me slightly off guard when he said,

“We can talk about this all day, or we could pray.”

I realized he meant praying for me to speak in tongues. Two things collided in me: a hope that I would speak the language of the angels, and a fear that I would try and it would not happen. I felt like I was being vacuum-packed. Pressure to give into the spiritual culture, and living proof that God does answer that prayer (my friend sitting next to me comes from a similar background and experience, and God answered his prayer to speak in tongues a few weeks earlier).

Should I do it? Could I do it? Did I need to do it?

“I don’t know,” I said. And that was the truth.

Later, this young man observed that I was looking very contemplative. “What are you thinking?”

I had come to my decision. “I don’t want to do it. I know who God is and I know who I am, and I am learning to walk in the Spirit, but I don’t think I need to speak in tongues to experience intimacy. I asked God if I should, and he says, ‘Not right now.’”

It felt huge, claiming to know God, be intimate with him, and hear from him. But it was the most truthful part of my heart. Later I was told this guy appreciated my response.

 

God came to confirm all my claims in the evening. I went to Young Adults, a sort of church small group. During worship, a new acquaintance came to me with a word from God, which I was all too happy to receive. I will paraphrase what she said and insert what the Spirit said to mine in brackets, because every word was dead-on.

“God wants to tell you that you are full of purity and mercy [your desires are pure and your attitude is merciful to the people here who walk in falseness]. You are willing to go anywhere and do anything in following him, willing to give up your life in service, willing to be taught [you follow me out west and follow me down south and follow me in relationship and follow me in the everyday details of life].

“Though you might not have any schooling, he doesn’t care, because your desire is for him [I don’t care if you don’t know how to speak in tongues or can’t prophesy—you only care about knowing me, and I will reveal myself to you]. You are at peace in your heart, peace about who God is and who he has made you to be, and you are a place of safety for others to come and rest [be assured that you know who I am, rest in the identity I have stamped upon your forehead, and remember that I am sending my children to you because you are a safe place for them to find me].”

I was blown away. I started laughing and crying the minute she spoke. I sat down when she had finished and laughed and cried and thanked God, and he said, “I love you.” I saw me sitting in his lap with his arms around me, the way I might hold the little ones I nanny.

Then Jordan came up to me. I’d never met her before.

“I just had an image of Jesus coming up to you and kneeling before you,” she said. “He gives you a Valentine that says ‘be mine.’ I know it’s not Valentine’s Day, but he wants to romance you in ways you’ve never experienced.”

I grinned. “You don’t have to tell me twice.”

Jordan prayed, asking that I would hold Jesus’ hand when I walk down the street, and when I sit down, that I would sit in his lap.

I laughed even more. We’d seen the same image.

Surprise!

Oh Jesus, I love you. I was wondering why you wanted me to come to Texas. Now I see a confirmation of all the things I have come into, and a prediction of the future things you hold, which, I imagine, will come in varying degree of surprise.