A teaser.

A tingle.
Icy tiny tickles on my skin,
exposed at the ankles, my corduroy cuffs turned in.
The air, alarming. Refreshing.
A sharp gust.
A shiver, a sigh, again.
I regret to say this is the nearest winter has yet been.

Knowing, Really Knowing. (written last Fall)

As much as becoming nocturnal has really killed my study habits while I was in school this past semester, and as much as I should be in bed right now – because my sleep habits definitely need a fix – I’ve really come to appreciate the night hours at home.

I love my family, don’t ever assume I don’t. To be home is refreshing and being around my mother and sister and brother is a comfort I’ve been missing immensely since Christmas time.. but there’s something peaceful about 1:01 am.

I hear my fridge running. The fishtank is cycling new oxygen into the water with little drips. My dog just stretched on the couch with her little snort and a sigh.

My stomach is tied up in frustration over not being able to find Episode 2 of Season 5 of Grey’s Anatomy. At least, one that will download within the first 10 minutes of watching it.

Five minutes ago, I sat clenching my retainer between my teeth after the fourteenth link. There was still nothing. How was I going to see the surgery completed? Great.
But then a dear friend of mine logged in to facebook – I was checking in the hopes that by the time I finished browsing pictures, the video will be finished – and suddenly, as if my friend were beside me, chiding my impulsiveness and greed, I am reminded of patience.

Why should I honestly be troubled over something so trivial? We all do it, we can’t deny it. But why? What drives our human nature so much that we must have our lives our own way and within our own hands?

It’s the lie we buy – that we are invincible, that we have the power, the skills, the strength, the immunity to defeat, and the resistance to pain.

Yet it takes the trust in something greater than ourselves. We so easily fail ourselves because of our imperfect, selfish nature. How is it that we so often turn to each other and ourselves for the answers that no one seems to find?

Sitting in the dark, illuminated by the glow of my computer screen, listening to the hum of the fridge and the steady whirring of the aquarium.. here, “be still and know” takes on an entirely different meaning.

We can know of, think we know, or really know God.

And for everything we think we already know, there’s a difference.

It’s a matter of character, a change of desire, a selfless transformation, and a love that seems irrational but in actuality is encompassing of human knowledge.

Being still, really knowing. Trust. Faith.

Really knowing, the depths, the core, the threads of the love and holiness that weaves us together when we really know the God who desires to bring us closer in righteousness.

Sometimes the being becomes all the more real in the knowing.. really knowing Truth.

You won’t relent until You have it all.

How true is that for us when we reject Him again and again?

It is something I apparently can’t learn enough,
because I am constantly struggling through what it means
to surrender,
to die to self,
to sacrifice my life and my desires for His.

I am selfish. I am prideful.
But oh am I thankful for His patience with me.
He is so patient.
Oh, but he is jealous.

‘Or do you think that the Scripture says in vain,
“The Spirit who dwells in us yearns jealously”?

But, He gives more grace.’*

He is too good to us.
Shouldn’t that be enough?
Let Your love be enough, oh my Lord.
How can the King of the Heavens
not satisfy the longing within my heart?

You say: submit, and we bow to you.
But only until our knees bruise.
You say: resist him, and he will flee.
Yet we peer out from behind your ankles,
and dance with sin hand in hand.
You say: follow me.
We happily tip-toe in the easy wake of your steps,
but with cowardice upon us,
turn back as the tide rolls in.

Cleanse our hands, we are sinners.
Purify our hearts – we have such double-minds.

Teach us patience.
Let us seek You with all our hearts,
let nothing take Your place in our lives.

*James 4:5-6a

Facebook Slogans

From Isaac:

I have been thinking that Facebook needs a few slogans to advertise it more, here are my top 10:

10. Making birthday wishes come true…if your birthday wish is to have 150 comments of the same thing.

9. Stalking is the new pink.

8. We let you know what other people also said about that photo.

7. If you don’t like our layouts, there are groups you can join.

6. Now people can know the minute you are single…even advertisers.

5. A better way of ignoring your real friends.

4. Your boss has one, it’s gotta be cool.

3. Dateline can’t keep us down.

2. At least we’re not MySpace.

1. Keeping you in touch with your friend’s parents since 2006.

your friend,

-Isaac

The Boy with the Striped Pajamas.

“We’re not supposed to be friends, you know. We’re meant to be enemies.” – Bruno.

It’s So Cold.

The light quickly turned red, and we came to a stop in the outside turning lane. Behind us, the sky darkened in a menacing black – I peered into the rearview mirror, fully aware of how the clouds gazed back into the car, glancing over the groceries and leftover Chipotle, both of which were stored in the backseat in neat, orderly stacks. Outside the security of the Explorer the wind gusted, bowing lithe palm trees under its force, and scattering beads of rain into opposite corners of the windshield. This weather was ghastly, ghastly and dark. It was good to be dry. It was comforting to be dry, warm, full, and listening to Frank Sinatra.

The cars surrounding us began to shift in anticipation. We eased off the brakes..

But we stopped. Abruptly.

The curb to our right was overrun with water. Excess rain filled the sewers, creating a small current where waves pushed off against the flooded concrete. A large puddle spread across four empty lanes from where I sat, swirling under the pressure of falling torrents.

But this was not what tore at my heart.

No, the rain did not surprise me. The sewers overflow often in heavy downpours. Weather this dreary marks the beginning of the summer months in Florida. No, this was ordinary. This was expected.

She was unexpected.

She, a woman, was drenched – her thin t-shirt clung to her form, capturing the movement of muscle as she strained to push the shopping cart in front of her. With one hand, she steered; with the other, she grasped a black umbrella which hung over the empty cart in front of her. Potholes in the concrete caused her a struggle. Suddenly, her umbrella buckled under the gale and fell, and, just as suddenly, a small, dark hand reached up from the cart, grabbing for one of the metal spokes which now protruded from the umbrella’s frame.

A small boy offered his mother back the broken canvas.

My friend, the driver, also saw what was happening outside the comforts of our Sports Utility Vehicle. Without verbal agreement, we edged across the four empty lanes and followed mother and child into the parking lot of a bank. As we drove, I unbuckled and threw our arranged purchases behind the driver’s seat in order to make room.

Eventually, we pulled up alongside the struggling pair, and I rolled down my window.

We asked if they would like a ride. The boy, in a Mickey Mouse t-shirt and checkered gym shorts, captured me in his surprised gaze of wide, brown eyes. His mother, at first, shifted her shoulder towards us and stared blankly – her eyebrow slowly raised in a quizzical nature. Almost immediately, a bright smile of white teeth displayed her relief. Her dark skin, dripping in a mix of perspiration and drizzle, was rich and glossy. I reached around my headrest to open the rear passenger door behind me, as the woman dropped her shredded, buckled umbrella into the Explorer and lifted her son out of the cart and onto the ground.

Both of them clambered into the back seat, shivering. The little boy giggled, his eyes glimmering.

“Eet’s cawld!” He laughed and rubbed his arms to keep warm. “Oh mahma, eet’s cawld!” Droplets shook from his black hair and onto the seat as his mother crawled in beside him. She hid her barefeet underneath my seat.

We asked where they were going. We pulled back onto the street, and headed south.

West Gate. A church. We were going to a church.

For church? No, they lived there.

Oh, they lived there. We asked where she worked, where she was coming from.

Nowhere. She worked nowhere, and she came from nowhere in particular.

Oh. We turned onto a side street.

Her son goes to college in Tallahassee, she told us. She got stuck here looking for a job, she said. But there are no jobs. No job meant no money, and no money meant no house.

“All I have is my little boy,” she would say.

She leaned down to him, and as she kissed his forehead, he would giggle and repeat, “Eet’s cawld!”

He has the most precious laugh, and the deepest, most innocent eyes – eyes that have, unfortunately, seen too many evils a five-year old boy never should see.

We pulled into the church’s parking lot in front of a mustard-yellow building, covered in vines and several spots of missing paint. Every possible inch of grass had become a parking spot for rundown sedans. Most also, were missing occasional spots of paint.

Is this it? Yes, she said. This is it.

Oh, okay.

It was still drizzling – she reached for her tattered umbrella.

Wait, take ours, my friend said.

Really? This big one? This is nice. Really? .. Really?

Really, we said. Please take it. It will keep you dry.

Oh, thank you! Thank you, she replied. She shouldered the large navy umbrella and climbed out of the open door. Her son followed, jumping from the backseat into a small puddle that had collected on the blacktop.

She began to walk away – wait!

Your name.

What?

What’s your name?

Camille. Her name was Camille.

Have a great night, Camille. Stay safe, stay dry.

She smiled.

Camille and her son crept up the front stoop to the church. We waited, the engine hiccuping while we sat, making sure that they got inside safely. As Camille slipped through the front door, little boy in tow, we pulled away from the church.

My attention focused on the air controls in the car. It was excessively warm now. I closed the vents and shut off the heat.

The boy’s words rang in my head.

It was no longer “cawld”.

Disgust.

It is morning.

The brutality of Truth convicts and breaks me. Its words – words of sorrow and grief and joy – pierce my soul. They are words sharp as a blade, potent and pure. Truth is radiant and obvious – blinding, as if in Light of the sun. I am utterly grateful. I want to sing, I want to cry, I want to drop to my knees, I want to dance. It is warm in the Light of Truth, and I want to dance.

With morning gone and noon to come, the Light shifts ever so slightly. It is scalding as it is magnified overhead. The Light, the Truth, probes inside, and it burns all that is dry, all that is parched. I am being purged of death but unaware. It is exposing. I do not like it. In pain and in fear, I hide under the nearest alcove of trees, waiting and luring in the distance. I am in shadow, hidden from sight. In the beckoning shadow, it is cool. My burns are relieved to a dull ache under the branches, in the dirt. It is soothing. It is comfortable and easy, so I stay.

The afternoon draws near.

I am here, here in the shadow of the trees. The Light cannot reach me, but it is not lost. Truth is never lost. Me, I am lost! – lost in my own shadow. I am afraid of what burns. It blinds me – the Light – and I like to see. I want to use my own eyes. Here, my own selfish eyes choose what to see. But no! In the Light I am blind, my own eyes are not those that see. Here I can blind myself from Truth. I like that; I like to be in control. I am picky, I am choosy, I am selfish, I know best for myself.

I blind myself here in this darkness, where my eyes cannot adjust. I avoid the blinding Light. All is dark and hidden, subjective and uncertain. No Truth exists here, but it is comfortable. It is comfortable and alone. It is comfortable, gray and alone and lonely. It is comfortably gray and alone and discomforting. Truth is hidden in the shadow of my pride. My wounds don’t burn, but they ache! Oh, how they ache. Somehow, sickeningly, I am comfortable aching.

The pounding, the aching. The dull, slow, aching. The shadows whisper of my uncertainties. The doubts never cease.

It grows, the aching builds! How to stop! The wind under the trees, normally soothing against the heat of the burn, now freezes the skin. The dirt, once cool and fine, roughly scrapes raw my wounds. It burns in a cold pain, no relief. Dull aching builds, it pounds! It builds! My comfort has become uncomfortable.

I stumble helplessly into the Light, as if it draws me out.

It burns! Its blade is still sharp – still potent, still pure. I dive back to the shadows, where it is comfortable, but no longer does it emanate safety. I am overwhelmed by the weight of uncertainty. This doubt is heavy, heavier than the heat that hovers inches behind my ears above the foilage.  I pick around the edges of shadow, mere centimeters from the edge, burdened with conviction, yet apprehensive of the pain that I fear honesty and humility will cost.  Knowing I will be exposed, vulnerable, naked, singed of impurities, but free of burden, guilt, the darkness… I abandon my pride, stretch out my arms, and…

I fall.

I am grateful. The Truth remains, it waits. It is so faithful. I lay face down in the cool green grass, unwilling to move. The sun hangs above the horizon, casting Light onto my form – all at once warm, welcoming, energizing, and awakening. My burns, once agonizingly numb and redundantly throbbing, now bathe in a dim glow of warmth. They hurt, but only just. I am not as tense as before; I do not resist the touches of the rays. Like the cleansing of any wound, initial stings race through my limbs. I am eventually clean, healed, complete.

Amazed. Astounded. Appalled – at myself.

I am proud to have found Truth; it benefits me, it completes me. It saves me.

No! Truth found me, Truth has always called me. Truth should compel me.

And even so, I sit here wishing to impress with eloquent prose. I write these words, subconsiously, I’m sure, to applaud myself, my empty desires, my foolish dreams, my irreverent pride. This should not be! Yet it is so.

I am disgusted that I would consider drowning out the wholly satisfying call of Truth on my life. Should I disregard the brutality of Truth for the security of my own heart? Would I be so selfish? Would I truly claim to hold more knowledge, more wisdom, more understanding, in the finite limits of my mind as I stand before the One God of infinite power, goodness, holiness, righteousness? To withhold my uncertainties and troubles? To refrain from total surrender?

I do. Everyday.

I am disgusted.

I am appalled at how easily disobedient, distracted, discontent, and indifferent I can be to the Gospel.

Yet I am amazed – for the deliberate rebellion of my soul, God still seeks. He still yearns to save. He aches to Love His most lowesome undeserving animal – yet He is gracious, patient, and kind.

Who but you, Lord? Who could stand against You?

None could stand; none should stand. I am lowly, undeserving, loved, and grateful. How could this be?

“God is God and I am man, and I’ll never understand it all. For only God is God.”

Amen.