Splashing With God

Will you join me over here today?

© by scj

In Which I Mention a Fantastical Creature

Hay Caramba.  It has been muy dificil to sit down and write my weekly 'Monday' blog. This has been a theme lately.

Today, I think my problem is writer's brain. I've been writing all weekend, working toward a couple of rapidly approaching deadlines. Which is to say I've been staring at my computer, pacing to and fro, and gazing out the window for days.  Fortunately I managed to get a really bad first draft on paper, too.

Writing, for me, is an idea generator.  After a particularly good session of staring, pacing, and gazing, ideas start ricocheting through my brain like elves in a bounce house.

This is not nearly as fun as it sounds, because by the time I'm done with my writing task I've reached my weekly word quota and I can't put any more of my noisy, flailing ideas to paper.

Bounce on, little elves; bounce on.

Teaching does the same thing: it provokes thought, but drains my words.  This is probably why I am known to stop lecturing in the middle of an impassioned sentence, my arms in the air, my face flushed, my eyes utterly blank, and my tongue totally tied.

 Come to think of it, walking tends to do this to me, too.  And eating.  And reading.  And sitting.

So if you shout 'hello!' to me on the street and I respond by walking mutely past you with glazed eyes and no signs of recognition, you know why.

Blame it on the elves.

Sometimes, though, something happens that brings my thoughts to a screeching halt. Elves freeze mid-flip and mid-yelp so that another fantastical creature can walk to the center of the bounce house and make an important announcement.

This is what happened yesterday when one of my students sneezed.

These sorts of earth-shattering occurrences are usually what trigger my epiphanies.

It wasn't a particularly grandiose sneeze, I'll admit.  I've heard better.  But it sure got my attention, because, although I was in the middle of explaining a writing workshop, I was overcome with the impulse to stop everything so I could bless him.

It was a strong urge.  Almost a temptation-like urge. An elf-freezing urge.

This is an interesting cultural phenomenon.

Someone publicly discharges the dust and mucous in their sinus passage, and what do we do?  We bless them.

This 'wishing well' is so important to us that we teach our young to do it.

We emphasize its importance in our school curriculums.

We clap and cheer when our toddlers say 'bwess you' for the first time.

We do everything we can to make sure that for the rest of their lives their brains will hear a sneeze and stop.everything. to wish the sneezer well.

I like this.

I think it's marvelous that we can train our brains to make blessing someone's involuntary 'discharging' so instinctual.

This has me wondering: what would it take to develop other sneeze/blessing-esque brain pathways, so that our positive responses to people became instinctive—not robotic (because our soul gets to choose what it will do with our brain's recommendations), but natural?

Like what if every time I saw a human face my brain sent me a strong signal to treat that person like they were my long lost friend from camp?

Or what if every time my brain heard someone offer up a personal idea or observation it instructed me to praise their creativity and originality?

Or what if every time country music came on in a public setting my brain commanded me to line dance, right then and there?

The world would be a much better place.

Our lives would be richer.

Our souls sturdier.

This brings me to the part of this blog where I tell you I don't really have anything more to say about this.  No conclusions, no helpful ideas.  I'm still waiting for that fantastical creature in the middle of the bounce house surrounded by frozen elves to tell me something important, something life-changing I can latch onto.  But I think the fantastical creature is a purple, musical sloth.  She is quietly humming to herself while she creeps sloooowly to 'center stage.'  So I'll end with this: I'm not sure how to create these positive impulses—to train my brain to instinctually affirm and dignify—besides lots and lots of practice.  But I'd like to create them.

I'd really, really like to.


© by scj

I'll Take Some Salt and Pepper on That

Sometimes, when anxiety and insecurities tear through my soul, I stop everything to step outside and breath deeply.

 If it's daytime I tilt my head toward the sun and enjoy the potporri of southern California smells: jasmine, orange blossom, and eucalyptus.

 If it's evening, I watch the moon rise over the grassy knoll just beyond my patio. My body relaxes as its silvery fingers reach out and brush the nightscape with pale light. And then I wait for it. For that faint chorus of crickets, growing louder as the moon shines brighter.

I love those cricket symphonies. They remind me that the world is full of magic. For the moon's light is so enchanting that the insects cannot keep quiet under it. And so they rub their wings and legs together and, of all things, music escapes from their spiny bodies; poignant and melodic. Magical.

Some nights, long after the crickets have finished their moonlight serenades, a lone voice quivers. It is unfortunately close to the door of my studio. So close, I occasionally think it has gotten into my house and is singing its sweet, loud song on my pillow. Next to my head. Where I'm trying to sleep.

I try to ignore it, and when that doesn't work (because it never works) I try to focus on the song's beauty. But that only works for about 7.6 seconds, and then I remember that I really, really want to sleep. So I turn on the lights and check every surface and open every cupboard looking for that.darn.cricket. with no luck.

In general, my sentiments toward that cricket have been...negative. Until one day four months ago when I discovered him chilling in the geraniums outside my door. And would you believe it, he's not a cricket after all: he's a three-legged grasshopper, with only one large back leg. How he sings so loudly is beyond me, but props to him for making such a noise with limited assets.

Over the months I've grown fond of my three-legged soloist. He and I are the same, really, singing our way through life a little off balance, a little handicapped—not what we were supposed to be when God first created, back before sin and sadness came on the scene. He's become my mascot, and so that's what I've named him. Mascot. Everyone needs a three-legged Mascot.

I love seeing Mascot enjoying the lush shade of my geraniums each day, and I take extra care not to disturb him when I garden. He is my musical companion. I count on walking out my door and seeing his beady eyes peering up at me.

But one day last week he disappeared, and this place erupted in drama.

First, I found a FOUR-legged grasshopper in Mascot's place. For a split second I was overcome by a surge of joy: Mascot had been HEALED! And then my boring, imagination-less adult common sense kicked in and convinced me that Mascot had not been healed; he'd gotten the boot by an entitled alpha grasshopper.

And then I got mad.

And sad. But I swallowed hard, gathered my wits, and willed away the ache in my stomach before going about my morning.

The next morning I rolled out of bed, walked outside, checked for Mascot, glared at the four-legged creature that was still in his place. and spun around to go inside.

That's when I saw Mascot clinging bravely to my door.

Relieved and delighted, I devised a cunning and daring plan to give Mascot back his home: I moved the four-legged intruder to the bark mulch next to my holly bush.

I almost passed out from the wild excitement of it all.

In the middle of the relocation it occurred to me that Mascot could have found a wife, and was enduring a marital dispute in which he had been banished to the "couch" for the night.

But my gut told me something far more sinister was going on. It also told me the four-legged hopper was a male. So that ruled out the whole marital dispute option.

My gut was right. Three days have passed since the dramatic affair and Alpha Hopper is nowhere to be found. Things have returned to normalcy, and Mascot rests comfortably in his geranium home. Although, many of the geraniums have been recently devoured by a vicious fungus, so there could be more relocation drama next week. I'll keep you updated. Never a dull day here on the compound.

In the meantime, I've been trying to figure out the moral of this whole story. There is always a moral to a story in which the main characters are insects.

It could be that it's unwise to become too attached to a grasshopper, especially of the three-legged variety. But I don't think so.

Life is too short not to delight in its magic, even if the magic only lasts for a moment. And so I think the moral of the story is to keep noticing things. Small things. Easily missed things. Because small things are the salt and pepper that season bland days. So I'll continue to let Mascot teach me to savor my days. I'll smile when I find him hiding in my flowers. I'll listen close when I hear his quivering voice. And I'll feel loss when I find my friend is gone. Because a string of seasoned days makes a feast for a hungry soul that's growing.

© by scj

Others May, You Cannot

I have an admission: I skip the long quotes featured in blog posts, articles, and books. I don't even bother to read texts that feature more quotes than original ideas.

I have analyzed and reanalyzed the psychology of this vice in an attempt to eradicate it, to no avail. I will continue to be a sheepish long-quote-skipper.

But I have no problem asking you, dear reader, to plow through a blog post that is almost entirely a quote from someone else.

My mom introduced me to this short essay last semester. I have revisited it over and over. I will probably continue to revisit it for the rest of my life.

I hope it encourages you like it encouraged me.

“Others May, You Cannot”

George Douglas Watson, 1845-1924

(Public Domain)

If God has called you to be really like Jesus, He will draw you to a life of crucifixion and humility, and put upon you such demands of obedience, that you will not be able to follow other people, or measure yourself by other Christians, and in many ways He will seem to let other good people do things which He will not let you do.

Other Christians and ministers who seem very religious and useful may push themselves, pull wires, and work schemes to carry out their plans, but you cannot do it; and if you attempt it, you will meet with such failure and rebuke from the Lord as to make you sorely penitent.

Others may boast of themselves, of their work, of their success, of their writing, but the Holy Sprit will not allow you to do any such thing, and if you begin it, He will lead you into some deep mortification that will make you despise yourself and all your good works.

Others may be allowed to succeed in making money, or may have a legacy left to them, but it is likely God will keep you poor, because He wants you to have something far better than gold, namely, a helpless dependence on Him, that He may have the privilege of supplying your needs day by day out of an unseen treasury.

The Lord may let others be honored and put forward, and keep you hidden in obscurity, because He wants you to produce some choice, fragrant fruit for His coming glory, which can only be produced in the shade. He may let others be great, but keep you small. He may let others do a work for him and get the credit of it, but He will make you work and toil without knowing how much you are doing; and then to make your work still more precious, He may let others get the credit for the work which you have done, and thus make your reward ten times greater when Jesus comes.

The Holy Spirit will put a strict watch over you, with a jealous love, and will rebuke you for little words and feelings, or for wasting your time, which other Christians never seem distressed over. So make up your mind that God is an infinite Sovereign, and has a right to do as He pleases with His own.

He may not explain to you a thousand things which puzzle your reason in His dealings with you. But if you absolutely sell yourself to be His…slave, He will wrap you up in a jealous love, bestow upon you many blessings which come only to those who are in the inner circle.

Settle it forever, then, that you are to deal directly with the Holy Spirit, and that He is to have the privilege of tying your tongue or chaining your hand, or closing your eyes, in ways that He does not seem to use with others. Now when you are so possessed with the living God that you are, in your secret heart, pleased and delighted over this peculiar, personal, private, jealous guardianship and management of the Holy Spirit over your life, you will have found the vestibule of Heaven.

© by scj

Tacky Tinsel and Beautiful Souls

We Portlanders and Vancouverites experienced a Christmas miracle last week: the grey skies rolled away and the sun shone clear. My mom and I pulled on our walking shoes, eager to enjoy this unexpected gift of sun, and went on a leisurely neighborhood stroll.

"Look at all of the cute Christmas decorations on this house," my mom exclaimed, slowing her pace to admire the house.

There certainly were a lot of them. Too many, I thought. Too much tinsel, and too many bright colors.

"It looks pretty tacky," I flippantly responded.

My mom grew quiet.

"You miss out when you judge too quickly," she finally said. "There's a bigger picture that you don't see."

"Mmm, no, I don't think I missed anything," I responded, again carelessly.

She was quiet again before continuing. "The lady who lives there works every day for a week to get that house ready so that kids can enjoy it. She and her husband aren't able to have kids, and she told me once she hopes the neighborhood children will delight in her decorations."

Her soft words cut sharp into my careless heart, teaching it to see what she saw.

I felt shamed, overcome by the irony of my judgment. For that house's tinsel glittered cheerily and its colors shone happily to celebrate the babe whose entrance into a cold and fetid stable made him the scorn of flippant hearts, unable to see his beauty and majesty.

This celebrated boy King, he grew into a man who looked at the people society scoffed at—the beggars and prostitutes, homeless and sick—and saw valuable, beautiful souls.

This humble King, he delights in us because he sees more than our trimmings—our waning shine and fading color. He delights in the souls no one can see, and takes joy in their offerings—even when they pale next to the riches of his heaven.

And this High King who stepped down from heaven into a dirty feeding trough, he would have us delight in the offerings of the souls around us, dignifying them because we can see what others may not.

© by scj

Ditching my Dread of Dating: How I'm Learning to Not be My Own Worst Enemy

For much of my adult life I've run in circles with a very favorable male-female ratio. In college I was on a track team with three guys for every one girl. A few years after college I enrolled in seminary where I am one of seven girls in a program of 100 guys.

You would think I'd have gotten good at the whole dating thing along the way.

But I didn't.

Instead I got good at hocking loogies, cracking jokes and throwing a frisbee.

It's always been easier for me to be pals with guys. The prospect of anything more has historically gotten me tangled up in my thoughts about our romantic and marriage potential: Do we have similar interests? Are we too similar? How similar is too similar? Why am I so nervous? Is it him? Or is it me? Why am I not nervous anymore? Shouldn't I be? Am I laughing too much? Does he think I'm too intense? Did I remember to floss this morning?

Not surprisingly, right about the time my anxiety and insecurity paralyze me, I get really bad at dating.

My initial solution to my dating ineptitude was to not do it. This worked for years. As time passed, though, I realized it would be pretty hard to jump straight from friendship to marriage, and I wanted to get married—so maybe I should date?

I gave it shot.

And I was still horrible at it. Still stifled by insecurity. Still suffering the paralysis of analysis.

Eventually I met a couple guys who weren't deterred by my dating awkwardness and stuck with me through my initial anxiety and uneasiness. And then one by one, none of the relationships turned into marriage.

Those broken relationships were disappointing and painful, but I learned a lot from them.

I learned about tennis and crossfit, wine and chocolate, showing a man respect, and resolving conflict.

I learned that effective communication is way harder than anyone ever told me, and that words must always be married to actions to mean anything.

Most importantly, those relationships changed me.

They forced me to confront a lot of my fears, needs and baggage. They showed me the darkest parts of my soul, and encouraged me to open myself to the Light of the world who eradicates our fears, satisfies our deepest needs, and carries our baggage for us.

These relationships taught me about Jesus, the Lover of our souls, and gradually prepared me to see him face to face. I can't help but think that the men I dated were also changed for good as a result of our dating relationship.

Last year I broke off my engagement a month before my fiance and I were to be married (read more here and here). It hurt more than anything has ever hurt.

But even in the turbulent wake of the break-up, I rested in my confidence that God's plan all along was to use my relationship with my former fiance to shape each of our souls.

Marriage was not his goal for me last year. Marriage is never his goal for his children. Holiness is. Sometimes the Potter uses marriage as a tool to shape the clay; sometimes singleness is his tool of choice. Either way, he always uses relationships to accomplish his good work in each of us.

My shift in thinking about marriage—not as a goal but as a grace God uses to make us holy—has prompted a shift in the way I view the guys I go on dates with.

I am less prone to anxiously analyze our marriage potential. Instead, I have begun to view "him and me" as people who could help each other on this journey toward heaven, with or without a resulting marriage.

Because this journey is sometimes hard and lonely, and always meaningless without other people to spur us up over the rocky terrain and down into the daunting valleys.

This journey is where we meet God—sometimes in the still quiet, sometimes in the eyes of men and women.

And this journey is where we become like God, often in an intimate huddle with other souls.

This new perspective has changed the way I feel and act around men.

It's made it easier for me to be myself with them outside of frisbee-throwing, joke-cracking situations. I'm more confident to share my story, to let myself be known.

I'm not as distracted by anxious analysis and I can enjoy the things my new male friends have to offer. I find myself hungry to hear their stories, to learn of their "soul adventures," as author Frank Lambauch calls them.

These men have marvelous stories that spotlight the redemptive work of God, and renew my hope that the same God is working redemptively through my life. Their run-ins with God's grace have made many of them wise and intentional, and their input in my life has made it much richer.

© by scj

Today I am Celebrating...

...Because today marks the 14th consecutive day that I've been up out of bed and really participating in life. This is the longest stint of good health I've had in about a year, and let me tell you, my soul is shimmying and shaking with delight!

This is my 'my soul is dancing!' face. It also happens to be my best Wallace and Gromit face.

Throughout this 15-month battle with debilitating illness the Lord has been teaching me to live in the moment by drinking deeply of the grace that is everywhere. To celebrate his grace today I've listed 14 things that make my soul dance:

1. Beetles gleaming emerald by the side of the road (and looking, upon closer examination, like Power Rangers wearing turbo packs).

2. Nimble fingers that can use keyboards, pens, fabric, and food to create.

3. A God who teaches us the worth of our souls.

4. Laughter that rolls out of my belly like undulating ocean waves.

5. Laundry machines that wash the grime out of my clothes for me.

6. Sherbet-streaked sunsets.

7. Coconuts. (And coconut sugar, coconut ice cream, coconut oil, and coconut milk).

8. California mandarin oranges. They smell like Christmas, don't they?

9. Trustworthy friends that have traversed the years with me.

10. A job and ministry I love.

11. Students who energize me and pray for me.

12. New friends.

13. The Biola library. Still shoots thrills through my soul every time I step through its doors.

14. Severe mercy. The kind that strips away the props we rely on for our well-being* and teaches us to dive into the unconditional love and grace of Jesus.

Hope your Tuesday is grand and grace-filled, dear friends.

~S

*I've borrowed this idea from Gerald Sittser's book A Grace Disguised

© by scj

Copper Coins and Pistachio Shells

There is a to-do list on my kitchen table covered in pistachio shells—the remains of the afternoon snack I'd hoped would make me feel a bit better. But three handfuls of pistachios later and my muscles still ache somethin' fierce, and my fatigue is so deep it feels like it's located in my soul somewhere.

My mind is racing, tripping over discouraged thoughts, trying to figure out why I felt good for so many days and then woke up today feeling like I was hit by a freight train.

I stare in silence at the checklist I can't read for all the shells heaped on it, and it's just as well I can't see what I've written because I've been in bed all day, too achy and exhausted to do much more than feed myself the last of my leftovers.

This is so hard for me, the woman who used to make her roommates laugh at how quickly she blazed through a heap of responsibilities; who literally sprinted her way through college on a track scholarship; who is energized by productivity and is wired to scale and conquer metaphorical mountains—mountains that get higher and steeper with each victory.

And here I sit, the only mountain I've recently conquered in front of me: a pile of empty pistachios littering the list I am too exhausted to look at.

I feel impoverished, somehow. Like I have little to offer God when the fruit of my day is a pile of empty shells, when even my good health weeks allow me to do nothing more than scale mole hills.

The patient ache in my heart quivers and then I remember the widow in Luke 21 moving quietly toward the church offering, dropping in two copper coins worth less than a penny. They mustn't have sounded more than a quiet *clink* when they landed, swallowed up by piles of weightier coins.

I've often wondered how the widow felt when she watched Ol' MoneyBags walk ostentatiously up to the offering receptacle before her and pour in a heavy bag of gold and silver coins. Did she shift uneasily as the Rabbi, Jesus, watched her drop in her meager offering? As she gripped the two copper coins—all she had to live on—and walked up to the offering behind the pompous rich man, did her heart ache like mine, wishing she had more to offer God?

Perhaps not. Perhaps the kind of heart that is eager to give God everything is the kind of heart that understands the Kingdom of God—that knows that in this Kingdom greatness and value have never been determined by what we have to offer God. For what can clay do for the Potter or tools do for the Carpenter?

When Jesus saw the poor widow's offering he didn't see just two copper coins. He saw what no one else could see: a woman whose heart had taken a posture of surrender; a woman who had given the little she owned to God because she knew that the best thing clay can do is remain wholly available to the Potter for his purposes. Jesus knew that in his Kingdom—where less is more and loss is gain—the widow had given the most valuable gift of anyone in the temple that day.

The story of the widow's gift assures me that when Jesus looks at me he sees much more than a history of scaling and conquering mountains. I think he often sees a heart that strives: clay that believes deep down that its efforts and achievements are important indicators of its value and influence. Perhaps this is why God has stripped away my ability to achieve and conquer mountains this year. Perhaps he is redeeming this chronic sickness by teaching me, in still and helpless solitude, that clay is valuable, not because of its efforts, but because of the hands it rests in. Strong, capable hands that belong to a Potter who cares most about the things unseen: about hearts that need to be kneaded and shaped and taught to trust so that they can surrender to the loving plan of the Potter.

There is a stirring in my heart now—a lifting of my heart's gaze—and I know that Jesus sees beyond my pile of pistachio shells. He is looking for something smaller, something unseen. He is looking for faith the size of a mustard seed. The kind of faith that prompts a heart to surrender to the Potter's loving hands, available to be used for His plan because it knows that He is a God who uses a seed of faith—not to scale mountains—but to move them.

I think it's time to turn over my climbing gear.

© by scj

When You Get Slammed with a Late Fee

A few evenings ago I stopped off at the shabby video store down the street from my house to get a movie for the class I was teaching the next day.

As I pulled into the rental store's dark parking lot I muttered to myself about how I needed to run in and out of there fast so I could go home and get my aching body into bed.

I mindlessly put my car in park, eased slowly out of my car, and was startled fully awake by the ferocious snarls of a bulldog who was trying to squeeze his head out the cracked window of the car next to me to, no doubt, kill me.

Now I'm sure the driver didn't think his killer dog could squeeze out of that sliver of an opening to destroy passers by, but I've seen a kid get his head stuck in a smaller gap between two beams on a playground and am well acquainted with the pliable nature of heads. Naturally, I was not happy with the driver's negligence.

My mood grew more foul as I walked into the movie store only to spend who knows how long looking through the unalphabetized dvds for the one I'd come for (what kind of time does this place think I have?!).

I stepped up to the counter, anxious to pay and leave, and was told by the man behind the counter that I had a late fee for my last rental.

"Impossible," I told him . "It was a seven day rental: I checked it out Wednesday and returned it the following Wednesday." I did not smile at him.

"It says you rented it Tuesday and returned it the following Wednesday."

"But I remember checking it out on Wednesday," I said, conveniently forgetting about the memory problems that accompany my health issues. "I picked up the DVD and returned it on my way into work, and I don't go into work on Tuesday." He stuck to his guns.

"It's fine, it doesn't matter," I sighed. I still didn't smile, and this time there was an edge in my voice. A cranky, I'm so over this misunderstanding that is likely not my fault kind of edge.

I paid for the DVD and late fee, and walked around the counter so the clerk could hand it to me. The man shuffled over to me and handed me the DVD.

He couldn't look me in the eyes.

My heart sank and I quickly walked out the door so I could get out of there, like I'd wanted all along.

As I walked to my car and crawled in through the passenger's side to avoid Killer Doggie, I had a vision of Jesus picking an adulteress up out of the dust, looking at her with love when no one else would. I saw him talking to a scorned Samaritan woman—the town ho—and offering her eternal life, and I saw him letting a woman sit at his feet in a culture that only allowed men hang out with rabbis like Jesus.

I saw him rounding up a band of frumpy fishermen from a backwater town and telling them he'd use them to change the world. I saw him joining a reject tax collector for dinner, grabbing the deformed hands of an outcast leper, and pulling small children into his lap when there were important adults waiting to talk to him.

I saw him dignifying humans; making them feel like they were worth pulling up out of the dust; giving them a reason to raise their heads and pull their shoulders back; assuring them he didn't condemn them and it was okay for them to lift their eyes to his steady gaze of compassion.

And oh! when Jesus tells us to follow in his footsteps, he has commissioned us to spend our days dignifying the people around us by convincing the marginalized new kid that he's worth befriending, showing the man with cerebral palsy that he's worth serving, reminding the girl who got pregnant at 15 that she still has lots to offer the world, and assuring the movie store clerk that he can look into our eyes and find compassion there.

I wish I had dignified the man who stood behind the movie counter the other night, that I had remembered the great worth of his soul. I wish I had shown him that he is infinitely more important than a possibly "unfair" late fee.

I wish my focus had been outward, not inward. No—I wish my focus had been upward, that I opened myself up to the power of the Great Dignifier as I struggled to respond to my fellow soul with warmth and patience. I wish I could go back and do that night over again.

I haven't seen the movie store clerk since that night, but I've rubbed shoulders with several people—friends, family and strangers—since then, right when my soul was most laden with anxiety, fatigue, and just plain crabbiness. In his kindness, Jesus has given me lots of other opportunities to try to dignify the people around me, the way he did. And I am learning that when Jesus gives me second chances, he crowns me with dignity.

When I Wake Up Hungry

Last night I went to bed craving a bar of swiss chocolate—the kind that's loaded with so much cream it melts in my mouth before I have a chance to chew it. Today I woke up dying for a steaming, frothy latte and a thick slab of pumpkin bread, hot out of the oven.

When I quickly and hungrily climbed out of bed and almost blacked out from the exhaustion of the week I decided it would be nice to take a vacation to Italy where I'd eat loads of fresh bread and butter, heaps of cheesy pasta, and bucketfuls of gelato.

Then I remembered that I'm not allowed to put gluten, sugar, dairy, or caffeine in my body, and I concluded that heaven can't get here soon enough. Because I'll have a new body in heaven, and I'm pretty sure the lattes and chocolate there will be off. the. hook.

So I started dreaming about heaven, where my desires won't ever go unsatisfied, where my Jesus will fully fill all the empty cracks and hollows in my soul. I'm learning that letting my mind drift "further up and further in" to my heaven-home is the loveliest tour an imagination can take— it fertilizes my hope of future glory and helps me to center my heart on the place I belong.

Won't you join me as I muse?

1. I hope Turkish delight in heaven is as exquisite as Edmund thinks it is in The Lion the Witch and the Wardrobe.

When I tasted Turkish Delight for the first time I felt certain someone was playing a joke on me. To think this supposedly smooth, creamy, and divinely sweet Turkish Delight is really just chunky jelly coated in powdered sugar. Heaven will certainly rectify this egregious culinary blunder.

2. Boy but laughter is divine, and I cannot wait to have a deep belly laugh with God. If all of the truest, wholesomest, and rip-roarin' funniest humour is just a shadow of the kind of humor that flows from God's holy character, then we are in for some right good laughs, folks. Especially when you consider that our current belly laughs are facilitated by bellies in fallen bodies. What capacity must a resurrected and perfect body (belly) have for laughing?!

3. Have you ever hiked Half Dome in Yosemite in autumn? It's spectacular. The crisp air is perfumed with traces of summer pine. The mountains rise jagged and majestic on every side, a banner of deepest blue stretched wide behind them. The trail is dotted with fragrant wildflowers, and everywhere there are deciduous trees turning vibrant shades of saffron, amber, crimson, and caramel. Around some bends in the trail there are silvery looking-glass lakes; around others are undulating waterfalls, chortling as they tumble from heights to depths.
If an orchestral symphony could be translated into visual artwork it would look like Yosemite.

Each time I survey this staggering beauty I can't help but remember this land is cursed. This is an imitation of the real thing; it's but a shadow of our heaven-home. Can you imagine what it looked like before the fall of man? I think we will know in heaven. And I hope to find autumn in some corner of heaven. I think its colors and smells are too strong and alive for my senses now, but I sure can't wait

4. Oh how I yearn for the day that I feel really, truly known. In heaven all of my dingy facades and tarnished masks will melt away with sin's soul scars and stains and I will know what it is to stand before my Creator naked, known and loved. And the best part is I will know him fully, even as I am fully known.

What must it be like to hear the voice that spoke the stars into the sky, calls dead men to life, and courses with love say my name....

5. In that same vein, I am so excited to see and really know my dear friends and family in their truest form, uninhibited by fear and unfettered by insecurity; radiant in purity and splendor as they rule and reign with Christ, more themselves they've ever been before. I think I will stand in awe at their beauty.

6. A friend recently shared this by Charles Spurgeon with me: "You may look, and study, and weigh, but Jesus is a greater Savior than you think Him to be when your thoughts are at the greatest."

Now close your eyes and picture his eyes burning love into the darkest corners of your soul, speaking compassion to your withered heart, resurrecting your deepest dreams and desires and then satisfying every yearning you've ever known.

Let your imagination plumb the depths of his goodness and love, and then remember that the Savior is much, much greater than even this. It doesn't matter how far and wide you stretch that imagination of yours, you will never approach his great compassion and loving kindness.

This is the one who fights for you, walks with you, and lives in you. Blessed be his good and holy name.

7. Okay, now it's your turn: what do you hope for in heaven?!

© by scj

Just Around the River Bend

This evening I huffed and puffed up the big hill in my neighborhood toward a horizon drenched in honeyed light. I stepped over scuttling baby lizards, past tall gates covered in climbing jasmine, and smiled at the lady watering flowers under the giant wooden cross that stands erect in her front yard.

As I walked through this peaceful quiet I noticed my deep thoughts were punctuated by even deeper sighs; my shoulders were rigidly tense and the muscles around my chest were slowly tightening around my steadily beating heart, and I realized I was waiting for something.

With this realization came a flood of realizations—that I'd been sighing deep yesterday, and the day before, and the day before that, and I've been living as if I am waiting for something.

It doesn't take long for me to identify the things I'm waiting for. I'm waiting for spring semester when I'll hopefully be healthy enough to resume my philosophy classes after taking this semester off; I'm waiting to finish my degree so I can get a Ph.D. so I have more teaching prospects; I'm waiting for the floor to get mopped so I can put my feet up, the papers to get graded so I can read a book, the weekend to end so I can resume teaching, and the work week to end so I can resume resting; I'm waiting for the day my body is healthy enough to go hiking at sunrise and running at sunset; and, if I'm honest, I'm waiting for the day I meet a man who makes my heart quicken and my soul stand in awe of a God who gives good husbandly gifts. And I know that what I'm really waiting for is a life that looks the way I think it should.

I didn't do this when I was a kid. When I was a kid I had a settled contentedness, and although I sometimes burst into a heartfelt rendition of Pocahontas' "Just Around the River Bend," I wasn't thinking about the bend in life's road—or river—that brings surprising, and sometimes jarring and undesirable changes. I was living in the here and now, soaking up the gifts of the present.

Sometime before I joined the ranks of the double digit folk I had a few adults tell me I'd grow into an adult and wish I were a kid again, and so I determined to live it up in my youth. I climbed the highest trees, ate the stickiest candy, explored the wildest corners of the neighborhood, and rollerbladed down the steepest hills. I enjoyed years of this childhood reverie, and then I stepped quietly into adulthood, my soul popping with over-the-top ambition and swollen with starry-eyed dreams, and I started to sigh deep heavy sighs.

The thing about ambition is it's elusive—our imaginations whisper of greater victories and more satisfying conquests; and the thing about dreams is they're not bound by time they way we are. And these grand imaginations and eternal dreams of ours, they're shadows of Another World that beckons our sighing souls; they are the signposts that declare "You're not made for here!...you are not made for here!...you are not made for here."

These heavenly shadows remind me that my life was supposed to look different than it does. My soul was created to delight in God's unveiled glory in a Paradise untarnished by human narcissism and rebellion. My imaginative mind was created to drink deep from the Fount of all Wisdom and Knowledge, and my heart was created to commune with the Creator God's in a state of deepest, eternal satisfaction. And so I know, when I sigh deep and restless, I am really longing for the home I haven't seen, for the place God is preparing for those who love him.

I think perhaps Pocahontas gives us an apt reminder as we journey toward our heaven-home (!). This home, whose earthly echoes awaken aching desires, is waiting unseen around a distant bend on the Way of Jesus. It is the culmination of this journey; the last and greatest destination on a thrilling and tiring pilgrimage. Heaven—seeing Jesus face to face—is not something we just sit around and wait for, and it's not something totally disconnected from and unrelated to the terrain we traverse today, and tomorrow, and the day after. It is something we move toward now, in this fleeting present.

Today we make it our greatest ambition to drink deep from the Fount of Wisdom so that we one day recognize his voice that roars like raging waters....

...We remember that the Object of our greatest and truest desire lives in us, walks with us, and fights for us; and He is the only one who can satisfy....

...We fix our eyes on the glorious truth that Immanuel, God with us, is preparing for us a home that is a Divine Kingdom, and this Divine Kingdom is being established among us, here on earth: Now, in this moment....

...Today we, the Saints, get to build this eternally victorious Kingdom in the power of the Spirit and the presence of Jesus. And when our bodies grow tired and our minds grow weak, when our days seem dull and understated and we're tempted to heave deep and heavy sighs, we let the Father teach our lungs to inhale grace and exhale gratitude, because these are the air of heaven.

Confessions of a Former Carb Queen: Part II

Okay, yesterday I told you I ran into a couple problems in all my carb queen glory.

Odds are you've run into this problem at some point too, because it's probably the most universal of my two problems.

Problem #2: My pants got tight. Real tight. Fortunately I rarely had an occasion to wear them, but when I did I avoided bending over in my skinny jeans—just to preserve their life; and I avoided sitting down in my riding pants—the top snap popped open almost every time I did.

This is not the first time I've dealt with pant dilemmas, and I know it won't be the last. It's one of the many joys of being a woman.

When I was a freshman in college I was totally unprepared for the way that heavy weight lifting with my track team would transform my body. Just two months into a regime of heavy squats and power cleans, my favorite pants split clean and quick up the backside while I was hopping into my dad's SUV. It wasn't one of my finer moments.

I learned soon after that the sprinter/hurdler/jumper girls on my team had two pairs of pants: one for the off-season and one for the in-season, because of the way the lifting in the different seasons changed their bodies.

Alas, my days of blaming tight pants on sweaty hours in the weight room have passed. In fact, while sick in bed I began to rapidly lose muscle mass, and there was no way in the world I'd be able to roll out of bed and move around enough to get my toneage back and shed a few jiggly pounds.

But glory of glories, the necessary diet changes I'd begun to implement for my energy and immune system eventually got my body back to its normal weight, and kept it there. Without any exercise!

Here are a few more energy-boosting and weight-shedding diet tips:

1. The word "diet" comes from the Greek word "diaita," meaning way of living.Unless you have exceptional health problems, the way you eat needs to be something you can do every day for the rest of your life. It needs to be manageable.

If you're on a "Super-Size Me" diet, then you are going to need to make some significant changes and it won't feel manageable, so try to make the changes in doable chunks. Give yourself one thing to change per week, or even month. And give yourself grace. (But do not "sin" because grace abounds!)

2. Remember the "focus on adding rather than subtracting" rule? Once you've made some good additions to your diet, you can begin to focus on gradually taking away some of your more unhealthy options and replacing them with good ones.

When you can, choose God-made over man-made.

Your body will be especially thankful if you use caffeine and sugar sparingly. I know, I know, climbing Mount Everest on your hands sounds easier. And it probably is. But eating refined sugar and drinking coffee will make your adrenals even more fatigued, which will make you so tired you'll want to eat more, which will make your pants tighter, which will make you depressed, which will make you eat more, which will—well, you get the picture.

So give up soda first ("pop" for you northwesterners, and midwesterners). Then replace froo froo lattes with black coffee and a little half and half. Then work on drinking tea instead of coffee once a week. Then work on replacing bad carbs with good carbs. You get the picture.

If you can slowly change your diet and adjust to the accompanying difficulties, you will eventually have more energy than you did when you ate refined sugar and drank loads of coffee.Your pants will fit better too!

3. Some of you may hate exercising, in part, because it makes you so darn hungry all the time. The irony is that exercise can make overeating even more of a temptation!

If you exercise regularly, try to eat in the first thirty minutes after you work out.

I know food is the last thing you want when you're sweaty, panting, and nauseated, but your body is doing its most serious muscle repair work in that thirty-minute window.

In fact, if you can eat the proper ratio of carbs to protein in that window you will be less hungry the rest of the day and you'll feel better for your next workout.

It's like magic.

Here's how you can figure out what you need to eat in that thirty-minute, post-workout window:

To determine how many grams of carbs your body needs, figure out your weight in kilograms(use this converter), and divide your weight in kilograms by three. This is the number of carb grams you need.

Take that last number and divide it in half. That's how many grams of protein you need to eat.

For example, if you weigh 150 lbs, then you weigh 68 kilograms. Divide 68 by 3 and you need 22 grams of carbohydrates. Divide 22 by 2 and you need 11 grams of protein in that window.

4. "An apple a day keeps the doctor a day." It also keeps your pants fitting like they should.

Eat an apple and drink a tall glass of water before lunch and dinner. This will help you to manage portion size, especially since we're often tricked into thinking we're super hungry, when it's water that we need.

Well there you have it, my friends: Some sure-fire ways to feel confident when you zip up those fitted pants, and energized when you realize you need to run to the store to buy them in a smaller size.

Bon Appetit!

Confessions of a Former Carb Queen: Part I

Right around last Valentine's day I turned into a carb queen. No, it wasn't because I had boxes of Sees candies flooding my mailbox—although that would have been nice.

And no, it wasn't because I assuaged singlehood woes with potato chips and a carton of ice cream. Although some rocky road and a chic flick marathon would have been nice, too.

The source of my carb cravings was some seriously severe adrenal fatigue and the second round of mono in six months.

These illnesses sucked up every last ounce of my energy until I couldn't remain in a vertical position for more than five minutes without reaching for some sweet and savory carbs to give me a temporary energy boost.

And while I enjoyed my tasty indulgences for awhile, it wasn't long before I ran into a couple problems in all of my carb-filled glory.

Problem #1: The quick carb fix made me even more exhausted in the long run. Without fail, after every five-minute carb high passed I found myself feeling even sicker, weaker, and more exhausted than before.

I knew something had to change, and so did my doctor, so she ordered me to cut all gluten, refined sugar, and dairy out of my diet.

Goodbye joy and happiness.

Because really, who wants to eat cucumbers and raisins for an afternoon energy boost?

But overall health was more important than a short-term "fix", and so I turned into one of those health nuts that doesn't touch man-made foods, only shops at select grocery stores, and goes everywhere barefoot. Minus the barefoot part. Mostly because I hardly ever went anywhere.

Now don't get me wrong; I've always been a fairly healthy eater. I had to be to run track at a collegiate level for so many years. But I really loved my chocolate, cookies, and the salty, fatty carbs I ate to balance out my low-fat fibrous meals. I'm all about balance.

Not surprisingly, it took about four months of maintaining my new diet before my insatiable chocolate cravings died down, and it took just as long to figure out how to eat in a way that gave my body the nutrients necessary to repair itself on this long journey toward healthy living.

Thankfully I'd been picking up diet tips over the years that helped me to develop a way of eating that's slowly been restoring my body toward health.

I've taken what I've learned and have pieced together some trusty diet guidelines.

Give it a try, or your money back guaranteed!

And don't worry, you don't need to be as extreme as I am, and you sure DON'T need to give up sugar, gluten, and dairy to eat like this.

1. Here's the skinny on Americans: most of us have at least mildly fatigued adrenal glands. This is because our adrenal glands produce our adrenaline, and boy do Americans require a lot of adrenaline. We have fast-paced, action-packed, high-stress days, and don't often give our adrenal glands a reprieve from their adrenaline-producing frenzy. Nor do we feed them with the right fuel.

There are a lot of side-effects to having taxed adrenal glands because they play a role in regulating blood-sugar, monitoring hormones, and aiding the immune system. If you're prone to hypoglycemia, you could have fatigued adrenals.

Enter: good carbs.

Try to supplement your protein and good fats with carbs that won't spike your blood sugar, but will give you steady energy for the entire day. You can check this glycemic index for carbs that won't give you a temporary burst of energy before sending you crashing to the couch mid-afternoon.

Some carbs to avoid when possible:

• Potatoes
• Rice (especially white)
• Corn
• Chips
• Crackers

Some of my favorite good carbs:

• Black beans
• Oatmeal
• Apples

Is your heart sinking? Are you wondering if life is worth living without a daily dose of sour cream and onion potato chips?

I feel your pain.

Actually, I felt your pain. It gets better, it really does. Before you know it your body will be craving a handful of almonds and some cucumber with hummus. Bring on the beans, baby!

2. Focus on adding, not taking away from your daily eating routine. Every meal should have a serving of good carbs, protein, and healthy fats. If you're like me, then you don't have a problem getting a serving of carbs in at every meal and will need to work on adding a serving of protein and healthy fat at each meal.

I also try to focus on adding leafy greens to every meal too—even breakfast. It's amazing the energy some dark leafy greens can provide. And it's amazing how much easier it is to add good things to my diet than focus only on taking bad things away. This is an empowering, energizing way to begin changing a lifestyle.

By the way, a serving is about the size of your fist, although your fat serving will be about a tenth of a normal serving.

Back to good fats: I CANNOT sufficiently stress their importance. I know it may seem counter-intuitive to include good fat with each meal, but our body needs the proper ratio of fats, to protein, to carbs to function properly, with high energy.

Try to include one of the following healthy fats with every meal:

• nuts
• avocados
• olive oil
• fish

I promise you'll feel the difference after awhile!

This is all for today! Come back tomorrow for my carb problem #2 and part II of "Tips From a Former Carb Queen."

On the Road to Recovery

Today my dad and I went on a bike ride near the vacation home we’re staying at in Sun Valley, Idaho. We pedaled hard and breathed deep delight as the sun warmed our backs and the wind pushed us toward the stately mountains standing guard on the western horizon.

Slowing our pace to enjoy the murmuring applause of nearby quaking aspen, we were suddenly enveloped in a troop of dancing dandelion seeds, gliding and swirling like little parasols caught up in the gusting wind.

I smiled big and remembered my little girl self sitting at the family’s new fangled computer, writing story #46 about a girl who was turned into a dandelion seed by a benevolent wizard, blown off to fairyland, returned to her human state upon reaching a candy-flavored apply tree (the blue cotton candy flavored apples were totally the best), and thrust into an adventure that began in a fairy lodge made entirely of cherry blossoms.

This story, “The Babbling Blossom Tree,” was the last I fictional story I ever wrote. Adolescence came soon after, sending hormones coursing through my changing body and making me painfully self-aware.

Aware that there were other writers out there who penned much better stories than I.

Aware that any story I wrote for public enjoyment would be criticized and maybe even mocked.

Aware that trying my hand at anything meant experiencing inevitable, embarrassing failure.

I wish an awareness of the awarenesses that made me stop writing stories were enough to coax stories out of my fingers again. But it’s not.

And I realize that the things I did as a child when I was unaware of people’s expectations, untainted by insecurity, and unburdened by failure, those things made me feel fully alive.

Because those were the things God wired me to do.

 Those were the things he knew would pump life through my soul; the things he knew would give him great glory—not because I shouted praise each time I did them, but because he is glorified when we bust out of our self-made cocoons of mediocrity and monotony the way he busted out of the grave.

Because he is the Redeemer God and he made us to really live, the way Adam and Eve lived in Eden before they became self-aware and ashamed.

I’ve been looking back on the things I did as a kid—the pastimes that didn’t make it into adulthood with me—and thinking maybe I should try my hand at them again, see if they seep new life into my soul. Not driven by an awareness of my awarenesses, but by the realization that to live in Christ is to live better, fuller, richer.

As a kid I used to sneak away from the din of the cul-de-sac kids just before sunset and climb to the top of the neighbor’s tree. I’d sit alone on my little stump seat, my hazel eyes wide, my soul hungry, and I’d watch the sun shoot sherbet flames beyond the horizon’s darkening evergreen fringe.

I've forgotten to seek this kind of beauty daily.

This will be my starting place,

in re-learning to really live;

To recover Eden,

like a child.

Bring on the sunset.

© by scj

Pump Those Brakes, Baby: Part 2

I give you: Part 2

(Previously entitled "Pump Those Breaks"--yet another sign it's time to slow down. And work on spelling.)

5. Some of us have the thousand-white-rabbits-running-wildly-and-reproducing-rapidly-in-our-heads syndrome that kicks in without fail when we crawl into bed each night. When this happens we are overwhelmed by our rabbit-like thoughts and often spend hours chasing them, trying to corral them into some sort of cage before we can peacefully fall asleep.

Enter: journaling. Your journal is your rabbit cage. It corrals and preserves your unruly thoughts, helping you to process them now, and making them available to process further at a later time. I've found that it's helpful to journal at least an hour before bedtime each night so that your mind is cleared from the day's events and burdens sufficiently in advance.

If your rabbit-thoughts come in the form of thinking through (and worrying about) the next day's events, start a to-do list around dinner and add to it throughout the evening. I've heard these planners work wonders as we try to spill our messy thoughts onto a sheet of paper.

6. Go on a 20-30-minute walk each day. Walking is another sure-fire endorphin releaser. So strap on your walking shoes and go tackle that massive hill down street. Better yet, play the "Ha-ha-ha" while walking up the hill. Your body will be relaxed and invigorated, soaring in a sea of endorphins.

I've been battling a number of health problems this year that leave me absolutely exhausted each day, and my daily brisk walks are the only thing that make me feel temporarily rested.

I've also been doing some research lately on the role of walking in health, and have discovered that it can prevent chronic fatigue, in addition to heart disease. A rested body is a healthy body.

7. Take time at night to lie down, close your eyes, and listen to this song.

8. Ease the day's tension out of your body with a 15-minute stretch. If your muscles are beyond the help of normal stretching, get a foam roller. When in use these things are borderline torture weapons, but they work better than a deep tissue massage.

A tip: the black rollers are the firmest, so they loosen you up the best and hurt the worst. Trust me, it’s worth the pain.

When you're done stretching, take a soak in Epson salts. The magnesium in the salts will help your muscles relax (A fun fact: calcium makes them contract).

9. Finally, “forget not his benefits” (Psalm 103—Go read it). Our bodies can only be as rested as our souls. If you’re like me, your schedule is often packed to the max because you’re striving to get. things. done. And if you’re like me, it’s natural to blaze through your day meditating on the difficult, discouraging, or potentially disastrous things in your life. Neither of these patterns gives rest to our souls. And no amount of practical activities can undo the frenzied toll they take on our souls.

True rest is only found in Jesus. Our souls can spread out and rest because he is good. That’s it.That’s the secret to a rested soul, and eventually a rested body. Truly believing and meditating on God’s goodness.

Of course rest is a choice—we can’t maintain our crazy lifestyles and expect to evade the consequences. So we sometimes say “no” to create margin; we reorder our cram-packed days to allow for stillness; we take care of our bodies; we divert ourselves daily; we take a weekly Sabbath and an annual vacation.

But first we remember the good things God has done. We record them by journaling, writing, and composing so we can regularly look back on God’s history of faithful, good provision. Then we meditate on them instead of our worries, burdens, and the unknown future.

This meditation almost always turns into praise.

We praise God for being good, powerful, with us and in us.

We praise him for his sovereignty that swallows up our frantic striving.

And this praise is the consummation of our rest.

Pump Those Brakes, Baby: Part 1

The other day I signed my replacement credit card on the silver strip you slide through the little card machine at the grocery store. Somehow I didn't see the gleaming white strip two centimeters below that said "SIGN HERE."

This hardly phased me. You see, it was nothin' compared to the time my key to my apartment didn't work and I stood banging on my apartment door for four minutes, juggling eight bags of groceries and yelling for my roommates to come answer the door, before realizing it wasn't my apartment.

And it was nothing compared to the time I tried to break into my car because, well, my key wasn't working, only to realize that, yep, you guessed it: it wasn't my car.

Or the time I finally bought a car with a clicker, got into my car after an appointment and wondered why it reeked of cigarette smoke, before realizing it wasn't my car. Creepy. For the owner who may or may not have been watching the whole thing, that is.

Or the time I got in the shower with my clothes still on, or asked the car wash guy for an unscented air freshener, or locked my keys in the car twice in three days.

Yes, the credit card incident was mild. But it was yet another yellow flag waved high in the air, cautioning me to slow down, alerting me of my desperate need for rest.

For years I blazed past these yellow flags, pedal to the medal in this life I'd made into a race. Not surprisingly my trusty racecar began to wear out. Its hubcaps fell off, its spark plugs misfired, its gas sensor went screwy, its batteries ran down, and its engine started to stumble. But let me tell you, its brakes were still in great shape. And so I decided to start using them.

Here are a few ways I've recently learned to apply the brakes:

1. Remember the Ha-ha-ha game? The one where you and your friends would lie in a circle, your heads on each others' stomachs, and take turns fake laughing? The game where real raucous laughter would always eventually ensue, sending endorphins shooting through your body?

Well, your tired body needs those game-induced endorphins. Majorly. So play the laughing game with your kids or your friends. Or yourself. If you're playing with yourself all you have to do is fake laugh for 60 seconds straight. Feel free to experiment with different laughs. If you’re alone you can do this in a vertical position. No need to lie down.

I sometimes do this when I'm feeling especially stressed, and always when I'm alone. I end up laughing for real. And blushing. And looking cautiously over my shoulder.

I heard from someone who heard from someone else who heard from their doctor that fake laughing is actually an effective way to lower anxiety levels and prevent panic attacks because it really gets the endorphins flowing. So do this. Doctor's orders.

2. Try to sit down 2-5 times each day for 2-5 minutes. This is SO DOABLE and amazingly rejuvenating for body and soul. The key, according to my clinical nutritionist, is to sit and not do anything. No reading. No Facebook. No nothin'. Just you in a chair, leaning back, your legs up and your body limp like linguine.

3. Eat like this.

4. Bribe your kids/siblings/students to give you a back massage at least once a week. Then drink lots of water. People who are touched often stay healthier. I just made that up, but it's got to be true.

If your bribing skills aren't great, a simple hug should help you chill out.

I've been brake happy these days...so I've got more! Come back for a 100% guaranteed, sure-fire rest-giver in part 2.