Enough

I sink to my knees and thank God for my own edges. For where I run out and run dry. They are closer than I know. And they are where He rescues me.

Jesus, save me from my pursuit of comfort.

I grit my teeth and thank God for humbling me. For the sense of smallness. For the familiarity of the view from the bottom of the mountain.

Jesus, save me from feeling like I'm enough.

I clench my fists and thank God for the grief. For the darkness that gives me a choice: close my eyes and cover my ears, or cling tight to the light of His truth.

Jesus save me from trying to save myself.

with you with me

I'm gonna swim with you
and I'll watch out for things that might catch you if you make sure I keep blowing bubbles
and we'll drift and paddle and scoop the water past until we're where we want to be
and we'll make a promise and we'll shake on it
and I'll make sure you're okay if you do that for me.

Thursday, October 26, 2006

Ashley,

I hope for you....

Sturdy shoes in graduating sizes and beautiful colors.

Shoes that allow your feet to feel the changing soil and the trailing sun.

That the soles of your shoes will wear well-thin as you walk and explore and dance and plod and wander and sway and stand still and firm. Then it's on to the next pair for the next stretch of road.

Feet that plant in the ground beneath you.

Feet that walk away when you're done.

Feet that carry you to the next adventure.

Feet that move you forward even when it's dark.

Feet that will bring you back to me when you need me. And when I need you.

A strong tread and sure steps.

A thoughtful tread and cautious steps.

Many questions, mysteries, and opportunities to depend on our Dear One's guiding hand.

Letting

Right now, in this moment…

If I had a voice for singing, it would be rough with ragged edges. It would carry on calloused feet, and walk on and on and on.

It would fall slowly and sink into pores and corners and pockets and curled-up hat brims. Hanging heavy, making moments feel full of rainwater.

It would climb the air like rockets. It would scream without screaming.

It would stomp its tired feet and then keep walking.

And it would be lovely without lying down. It would be lovely without needing you to hold on. It would be lovely without asking you to love it.

It would ring out in a beautiful mess of arcing arrows. In the welled corners of eyes. In a steady course of planted steps. In a bed of wild red poppies.

If I had a voice for singing right now.

grace

I am naked before You.

You are clothed in My glory.

Rescued

"He's not even my bunny!" I protested through my sobs in the vet's office.

Growing up, all I wanted was a puppy or kitten. It seemed like something magical... like a living toy that had to play with me. I didn't want anything as much as I wanted that. I remember a field trip in kindergarten when the whole class walked to the fire station to look at the truck and talk to the firemen. More than anything about that trip, I remember that Mrs. Nolan told us she had a surprise for us after the trip. I was ecstatic because I knew that it had to be puppies. I was sure each of us was getting our own puppy. She seemed so certain that we would all love what she had planned for us... and what else would fifteen five year olds love? Mrs. Nolan thought the answer to that question was orange popsicles. I sat on the grass with all my classmates, dutifully sucking on my popsicle, wondering if the puppies were coming later.

Fast forward two years: Finally my pet dreams were coming true. He was little and gray and lovely. And he was mine. I named him Spud and trained him to come when I called him, I dressed him up in my cabbage patch clothes, and I entered him into contests (mostly costume contests. I'm serious.). It was wonderful. And then we got another cat. And she was also wonderful. And then that cat had kittens. And that was doubly wonderful. And then my mom married a veterinarian, we moved into a bigger house and our pet population exploded. Exploded. We lived in a house in the woods, and so the animals were indoor/outdoor. And plentiful. I remember at some point counting eleven cats, five dogs, a snake, a tank of fish, and a tank of mice (for the snake).

It’s like the thirsty little kid, trying to get some water from the water fountain, but the stream is so weak he's practically sucking it out. He doesn't realize that it's only weak because someone just flushed a toilet somewhere, and it takes just a couple seconds to shoot out full-force and soak him. That's what it was like.

So I was very suddenly aware of all the hair on every piece of clothing I owned, the smell of litter boxes, the noise of rowdy dogs, and a bunch of other things a seven year old doesn’t think about. But most of all, I remember the weight of responsibility we assumed to care for each of them. My mom is an amazing caregiver. Amazing. Because my step-dad was a vet we got all the animals no one wanted: a three-legged cat, a diaper-clad cat with nerve damage, I think someone was missing an eye, a litter of sick and tiny kittens, and a bunch of other misfits. And my mom would change that cat's diaper, get up multiple times at night to feed the newborn kittens, and pretty much run the show, making sure everyone (including my sister and I) had what they needed. And I don't ever remember her complaining.

I, on the other hand, was way too sensitive for this gig. I remember holding the tiniest of those sick kittens in my hands, watching every breathe, praying that God would help him, and then crying as he died. That wrecked me. Not to be a downer, but that was pretty formative for me. I realized just how crushing that responsibility could be. I was nowhere near being one of those people that you hear about growing up on a farm, accepting that death is just a part of living. I wish I would have been, but I was at the other end of that spectrum, miles away from well-adjusted. I was devastated each time. And adding up all the animals that came and went, that's a lot of devastation.

So I swore that I would never own animals as an adult. Never. I imagined myself as a mom, solemnly refusing to buy my teary kids a dog. And I was okay with that.

Fast forward to eight months ago: I'm coming home at around 10pm and as I pull into my driveway I see something sitting right by the entrance. I drive past very slowly... it's a chubby little bunny. I sit in my car for a while, thinking about what to do. And then decide that there is nothing to do, and I walk into my home with proud resolution. "It's fine. I feel good about not making this my responsibility. This sort of thing happens all the time-- people let their pets go and I don't need to be the saviour of all the unwanted pets. I'm not even going to think about it. The end."

For a week, he came to my yard at night and ate the pears that fell from my trees. It took two days for my wall of resolution to melt into a rescue plan. I enlisted some help from friends, constructed a temporary pen, did a ton of bunny research, and I saved him. Just in time to find out that he was incredibly sick.

Crap. So here I was, in this place that I had been avoiding for years and years. Something is sick and I need to help it or it'll die. Apparently God had decided it was time I revisit this. He had an infection in his eye and we went through three anxious visits to the vet before anyone figured out what was wrong. Little guy's eye swelled shut and the skin above it died. And this is where the story began. I'm sitting in my vet's office after they've brought him into the room with a nickel-sized chunk of skin missing from above his swollen-shut eye. I dissolved into tears. "He's not even my bunny!" At this point I had had him for about a month and I wanted to leave him on the table and go home. I didn’t want a bunny. I had never wanted a bunny… it seemed like a very weird thing to want. And my life felt full. I was going to school, involved at church, working in special ed, and that was all quite enough. I didn't need a sick rabbit. And above all, I was terrified of being the one responsible for keeping him alive.

But I stayed with him as they walked me through the five medications that I would need to administer daily. Five. One of which was an injection. Are you kidding me?? "So, who takes homeless rabbits?" I asked the vet tech. There had to be somebody who would take him. I just couldn’t deal with this right now. But nope, apparently the rabbit rescue shelters only rescue the ones who are about to be killed at the pound. Great.

So I took him home. I did what they told me to do and I prayed for help. And after all my whining and digging my heels in, God's grace to me was so sweet. A new roommate moved in the same week the bunny showed up. She had her degree in zoo keeping and turned out to be a sanity-saver. One of his medications had to be given four times a day, spaced out evenly... meaning that there were only supposed to be six hours between doses. I tried to stay up late to give him his nightly dose and then wake up six hours later to do the am one, but I was wearing thin and she saw that. She graciously stepped in, and woke up at 6:30 every morning to give him his morning meds. She also gave him his injection at 1pm every day. Without her I wouldn't have been able to help him. She was a special gift to me.

And money came when I needed it. The bills were overwhelming, but God provided.

I believe that Arley (that's his name) was a gift to me from God. This rescue took place during a time when my doctors were giving me some scary news about my own health. I felt as though I needed to be rescued… which is probably another reason I wasn't up for nursing a sick animal. I was pretty spent already. But God knew better, and I got to be a part of helping something heal. I was privileged to watch this little life recover and eventually thrive.

And throughout this process I slowly came to terms with the possibility of him dying. God is teaching me to live with open hands. Not to cling to what I love, but accept that most things are only here for a time. So I found rest (am still finding rest) in that scary space where I can only see where my feet are, and not where they are going. That space where responsibility and possible loss hold hands. That space that exists outside of oneself because life is about much more than what I want. Thank God that He is willing to move me when I need to move.

And Arley makes me laugh... which I know God loves.

And now he is my bunny, and I want him. His needs are still overwhelming to me sometimes, but I can appreciate the fact that he is an opportunity for me to trust God. I am growing and thankful.

PS I feel like I need to add-- A week ago I got news from my doctor-- my body is healthy. For those of you who don't know, this has been a very scary journey for me. But God walked it with me-- through the fear of illness to the other side where trust is. He is so good.

and I move

The lie: Just two more steps and you'll be there.

Except that my shoes have inconveniently been stapled to the floor. So it becomes a chasing something without being able to move my feet... or any other bit of me. It's a fixating on what I want, being able to smell it cooking, being able to hear the rustling in the bushes... while life happens right where I am and I miss it. Am I making sense? I allow myself to dream and wish and beg for what I want... without living where I am.

So I sing praises to the One who is faithful to open my eyes to the lies. And I am moved. I move in love, in response to His love.

Just two more steps and you'll be there. Nope. I'm here. And He is here with me. Waking me up and making me live.
Oh, I am so in love.

Really breathing

I found this in my last blog, and it's the best answer to the question "Why did you move to Portland, Amanda?" If I had known better I would have come with this tattooed on my forearm for every time I'd be asked. Not that I mind telling... I actually love telling the story because of God's voice and fingerprints and love all over it. But it means I'm talking for at least ten minutes and not everyone's ten-minutes-interested.

Typing with long nails is a challenge.

Below, when I talk about things being broken, I'm talking about things that kept me stuck and hurting. So it was(is) a good kind of breaking.

Friday, July 21, 2006
I think I need to be in a place where I'm able to see God's hand. If I keep myself stagnate and sedentary, where will I have opportunity to see a faithful God? I keep getting this phrase: I'm not letting Him save me. Not the salvation from hell kinda save, but the rescuing kinda save..... I'm not sure if that idea is full proof, but it captures the sentiment I'm going for. If I never move, how will he be evident?
I feel like things continue to be broken in my life.... things that are keeping me in this awful, dark, and depressing place..... maybe it's the same thing that God continues to break over and over again..... either which way it feels like it ushers in a new kind of air. The kind that I'm supposed to be breathing.

I love that-- the kind of air I'm supposed to be breathing. I was right. And now I'm alive :)

with

There are times when He is so quiet. Not still, but quiet. I would have died here if He had been quiet this time. And He knew that.
What a good God.

Come on!

I have a kite and I won't be happy until I fly it. Okay, that's overstating the matter.. I'm already pretty happy, but I know what would make me happier.

Ice cream.

And flying my kite.

Transparent

It was snack time and blueberries were migrating from tabletop to floor to shoe. Gross. And I can't remember what I was annoyed with (constant din of tiny people, "Don't put the serving spoon in your mouth" again and again and again, screeching from kids who want something they don't have yet, or whatever) but I was annoyed. And trying so hard to keep my voice gentle. Anyway, I got the broom to mitigate the blueberry chaos, while determining to keep my frustration to myself.


Let's back up. It was 10:30am and this had been a rough day already-- that morning I found out:
that a leave request for my trip this summer had been denied
and
a parent had requested a meeting with the teachers and supervisor because she thought her kid wasn't safe in our classroom. (p.s. she's safe)


And I'm pms'y. So already, on a scale from one to pissy, I'm about a six. And snack time easily boosted me to an eight.

So okay, there I was trying to sweep up the berries from the floor and a little girl turned toward me, looking a little concerned, and asked "Teacher Amanda, do you like being a teacher?"


Crap. I'm see-through.

I sort of side-stepped and told her that I love all my kid friends. I do love them. And the people I work with are amazing to me. But on a day like this the rest of the job feels like steep hills and scooping water out of a holey boat.

Anyway. I'm see-through.

Pieces

March 26, 2006

You know the sort of shots taken in movies of people who ride trains or walk under trees. A mottled, piecey, clippy sort of succession of shots of the person's face with sun blotched on it. That's what it is. Always sun spilling through something, bathing faces in spots and sections. And eyes are squinted and turned upward, dreamy and tired, aimlessness and drifting. Yeah, that's what it is.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Kwjn8YaaB1Q

stuff

Wow, I hate horse movies. The horse always dies, or it's mother dies, or it makes me think it's going to die but then doesn't... which is almost worse than actually dying because it turns into some kind of emotional acrobatics. Up, down, almost falling, stomach dropping, last minute save. Not for me. And sad dog movies and widow movies and lost children ones too. It feels like someone has walked up to my feelings and said "Hey, come with me, beautiful." And the next thing I know I'm crying. And all my money's gone. Nope, I'll sit down for a good story. One without manipulation, and I'm happy to watch. But keep your horses to yourself.

Found

So I've been working on this for a while and it's finally feeling at least blog-ready. I'll probably keep tweaking, but this is it for now...

I once knew a girl who never rested. Her eyes were see-through and leaky, and her mouth was tight. I walked with her. And even though we only talked the few moments before she slept, I knew her thoughts. Like screaming neon signs, some of them were. The rest were threadbare. Two gears; blaring and faded.

GET AWAY FROM ME

Where's my voice

I'M TOO TIRED

Help

LOOK AWAY

Take me home

DON'T TOUCH ME

Let me sleep

IS THIS IT

She was an uncovered nerve. How do you rest when everything pricks. Everything pricks. So I tried to be small and still, but my stillness made it worse. In the quiet she went gray. And with nothing to say, she turned on music and danced in angled jerks. Throwing herself around the room, falling and rising. Some watched, others joined in, and a few tried to be her partners.

Those who watched never stayed for long. It was too terrible to see.
Those who joined in made for a crowd, and she'd leave to find any empty room.
And her partners became too bruised to last a whole song.

One morning, while I sat with her sleeping near my feet, I heard something new. New felt good. It could have been anything, as long as it was new. It sounded like a gentle whistle. And my heart beat faster. Hearing something gentle was like finally breathing. Sitting on the tippy edge of a deep, deep well had been our days. We sat in the dark, staring into the dark, feeling nothing with our feet. And now something else was here. And it was good.

This sound grew, not louder, but bigger and warmer. I could see a flush in her skin, even while she slept. Oh if she only knew about this something calling to us. She would disappear. Or explode. Either way, I was standing right in between afraid and captivated. But it was too good to run from.

And then, without stirring, she opened her eyes, and I braced myself. As this good hung in the air around us, she lay still and waited. She never waited. Waiting rubbed her skin raw because it offered no distraction. But in this space she waited.

We waited. And I hoped with all my muscles and blood and skin that it wouldn’t go away. We waited. And it was so good. Just being with this sweet warmth made my lungs grow bigger.

And then a wonder.

Hands began to reach. And I don’t know whether they were mine or hers, but this Good answered us with a swelling to meet every inch of our outsides and insides both. I could feel the heat of knowing eyes. There was exhaling and inhaling and folding up and stretching out. There was becoming. Pain was being discovered and uncovered, and covered by grace and by justice. Covered and seen and met and loved. The wounds remained, but we were not alone and we were being rescued. A crumpled form became easy lines became something true. And we stood up on new legs, ready to be with Him.

This girl who never rested held hands with love. And there was rest.

And I was one again. Beckoned by compassion. Fused by Truth.

Yikes...

I'm having new-blogger's-anxiety. I've been blogging on xanga for the past five years, but I've been thinking lately that my voice has changed enough to warrant a brand new blog in a brand new blog zip code. And now I'm having new blogger's remorse.

Yeah, weird.

Weird enough that I'm gonna try to skip right past that to the reason I'm here. I've got new stuff to say and old stuff to re-say, so if some of it sounds familiar to you (the one or two people who still read me... mom) that's because it is. I just think it enough to say it twice.

So I used to be here.

And now I'm here. We'll see how this goes...