My hope is to offer encouragement to writers as well as those who simply love to read. You will find eclectic snippets here—news of projects I’m working on, comments regarding books I enjoy, favorite authors, quotes, and reflections regarding my own experiences. I especially like to write about my dreams—those parables in the night seasons. Symbols and metaphors delight and intrigue me. You will find them here.
Music, coffee, making lists--my antidotes for stress when I wrote in my journal, "I would like to step off the edge of this intensity and slow down. I need some space to unfold and breathe."
I continued reading journal entries for the last six weeks--the craving for stillness and silence underscored on almost every page. Yet other entries bobbed to the surface--all the ways God's kindness to guide and tutor me parallel my insecurities--the paradox of experiencing jubilation in the midst of circumstancial stressors.
I wrote, "I have stayed in the light. I have gotten close to the dark edges, but I have not moved out of His encircling presence. I have used my spiritual coping tools of 'saying no;' 'listening to empowering podcasts,' 'writing down insights,' and 'reading.' I must work to stay in the light and utilize every coping mechanism available. Keep it simple. Pray. Declare promises. Do not fret or worry. Be of good courage. Relax into the provision. God is good, and His heart is unchanging toward me."
I am learning peace. I am learning grace.
God intends refreshment.
I unfurl my faith.
Trust your happiness and the richness of your life at this moment. It is as true and as much yours as anything else that ever happened to you.~Katherine Anne Porter, Letters of Katherine Anne Porter
I stopped to look up into the sky, to see the cloud formations. I felt such peace watching them glide by, appreciating their pace. No hurry. I thought that clouds often seem like comforting companions to me. Diverse and artful. One morning this week at sunrise, a congregation of cloud layers seemed to descend upon me. Light poured through billowy tiers and blushed pink. I whispered to myself, "Oh, the beauty of this day."
Sometimes, though, I have such a struggle hanging onto the richness of life. I get easily sidetracked. My emotions flair, and I unravel in feelings of fatigue or anxiety, hopelessness or dread. And then images like cloud formations or giant oak trees or dawn breaking, snap my attention to more positive, powerful thinking.
One of the phrases that appears in Scripture is the exhortation to "Be strong." (Joshua 1:1-9) I've asked this question in prayer: God, how do I cultivate strength?
Sometimes I ponder what it takes for a person to be resilient--to sustain resiliency. My personality often does not yield itself to being resilient. I need more solitude and sleep than the average person. I require swaths of time to regroup after social interactions. Small talk drains me almost like nothing else. I could spend the whole weekend at home in my study, happy as a lark. Silence rejuvenates me. I bask in staying under the radar. Hidden. Yet this week I've grappled with my longing to be read--to be published. Such paradox. I believe my yearning was stirred when I received a rejection email from a literary journal in which I'd hoped my writing style would fit. I can be like a child playing "hide and seek." I'd like to be discovered, if only briefly.
My personaility, though, serves me well in other areas. I can be quite intuitive, picking up on moods of others--noticing non-verbal cues. Reading faces. I am an astute observer, noting fine details. I am an empathic listener. Curious. I realize these characteristics probably make me a better writer. And so it goes. It is helpful for me to embrace all the aspects of who I am. Hide and Seek. Black and White. Light and Dark.
In Revelation 3:20, Jesus speaks: Behold, I'm standing at the door, knocking. If your heart is open to hear my voice and you open the door within, I will come in to you and feast with you, and you will feast with me.~The Passion Translation
Today my emotions were flat. I did not feel physically energetic. Yet I wanted to practice rejoicing, practice thanksgiving, even when I had no real enthusiasm. I began to think about where I could begin to rejoice. I thought of my own salvation, when I'd "opened the door." When I believed in what Jesus did for me. Sacrificed His life, then rose from the dead. Resurrection. The sheer joy I felt believing this truth, knowing that to believe was not about being a better person or being good enough, but rather receiving forgiveness and receiving His death and resurrection as a gift. Grace. The complete mystery and beauty of His grace. I am a steward of this mystery.
I thought, what if Jesus knocked at my door today, what would I want to say to Him. Show Him. I thought I'd first take Him to my study. I'd say, "I have many symbols of You here. I can come to this room where I write and look around, and can begin to open my mouth in praise. I'd point to the photograph of a woman, her back to the camera, gazing out to sea. "Lord, the ocean breathes your power to me. When I'm by the water and smell the salt and hear the sound of the waves, it's as if I hear your voice.
I wonder what she may have experienced. Mary Magdalene. That first Easter morning. She'd seen the stone rolled away, and the other disciple observed the linen cloth abandoned. Mary stood outside the tomb crying. Did she notice anything different, before she dared look into the empty tomb? Did the morning light appear more radiant? Did a warm breeze graze her wet cheeks? Could she hear the whisper of leaves? She bent to look in, and two angels asked, "Why do you weep?" Did she place a hand over her chest, her heartbeat accelerated and wildly thumping? Was she hallucinating? Two angels robed in white? Did she quickly swipe away the tears and look again? She answered, "They took my Master, and I don't know where they put Him."
She turned around and saw a man standing there, but she didn't recognize him. "Mary," he said. She knew His voice. She must have shouted, her own voice ragged with awe, when she exclaimed in Hebrew, "Rabboni!" She believed and clung to Him. When He gently asked her to let go, did His touch leave the fragrance of resurrection and miracles on her skin? When she ran back to tell the disciples that she'd seen and touched Him, was she laughing now, tears of joy spilling down her face?