Of Tongues And Prophecy

Photo courtesy of Heather Eure

The building sits to the north. Flags and a cross. A place I was warned could destroy my faith. I didn’t enter there.

Instead, I hid behind stained glass, beneath a cross of my own. I sat in my cushioned seat. I took notes, with my pencil and my heart. I didn’t dare believe there was truth beyond the red carpet. I didn’t dare speak.

No tongues. No prophecy.

Then, I met a man. A man who had no knowledge of these rules, and the notes I scribbled didn’t make sense to him. He slammed the top of his Bible with his palm. Not out of disrespect for its Author. But out of outrage for those who used it to bind hearts and lives and tongues.

A prophet.

She doodles in her notebook. Black and white. With such beauty. Who knew? She swirls with ink. Each stroke a prayer. She doesn’t even know the power of her gift. Her Spirit-inspired ability. All she knows is that she’s speaking and that He’s listening. If any of us dared to try to understand what she’s saying, we could not. But He does. And He delights.

Tongues.

Have you heard how dangerous it is? This prophecy. These tongues. These words I was told to avoid when it came to spiritual gifts. Yet, the prophet writes. He speaks and preaches by the power of the Holy Spirit. (What? Holy Spirit? Is that another thing you can’t handle? Neither can I.)

And I am undone.

She prays. I save her texts and e-mails because they are extraordinary. She does none of this for her own praise. She is bent on responding to what He’s doing and what she sees. Oh, what she sees with these eyes that read past pretense and bullshit. And she calls it what it is. She stirs courage in me.

I still haven’t entered the building to the north. But sometimes I wonder. I wonder what I would find there. Would I find God there?

Probably.

He keeps showing up in places I was told He would never be. He’s been appearing in places I never thought to look. And those beneath the steeple and stained glass are beside themselves, tearing up the red carpet in a desperate attempt to preserve the lies they chose to believe and feed to those of us in the cushioned seats.

I am grateful for the rule-breakers. These rebels. I’m not even sure they know they are doing it. For they are simply responding. Open to what God is doing. Living a life of tongues and prophecy.

Lessons Learned This Week (Some of Them Learned Again)

That it’s okay to be late to church, sit toward the back feeling completely depleted, and experience acceptance.

That I can get just as much done in the Denver Seminary Student Center as I do in the office, even while unexpectedly running into tons of people I know. (My boss has not approved this as a regular schedule for me, though I may try…)

That spending time with old friends is just as good as therapy. Laughter is a strange, effective medicine.

That there is little that can’t be mended in an Irish pub when you're surrounded by good friends—old and new.

That I really do love what I do with writing and drawing others into inspiration and honesty; this long-awaited calling is a gift that I hope does not end with me and my passions.

That it’s possible for a 45-minute discussion about tithing to end with mutual understanding and respect.

That relationships can come before structure and rules.

That the Eucharist brings you face to face with your most difficult feelings and you will be given an opportunity to forgive in the moment the bread is handed to you. (It also helps to have a friend put their arm around you as you walk back to the pew, because they know every emotion that just welled up you.)

That while hurt often comes at the hands of others, so does healing. If we hide after the hurt, the healing can’t begin.

That it’s probably not a good idea to stay up until 2am two nights in a row when you’re recovering from two illnesses.

That rest really is the greatest asset to creativity. I slept in both mornings this weekend and took a nap this afternoon.

That, given the chance, little girls will wear Halloween costumes and crowns every day after school. And all weekend too.

That there really is satisfaction in making something with my hands, whether it’s homemade pizza dough with my husband or braiding my girls’ hair before church.

Counting My Tears

We unloaded the truck at 9:30 on Tuesday night. Home.

The days followed with mixed emotions until I crashed this last weekend. Hard.

I lay in bed for almost three days with aches and pains all over my body, following a terrible stomach virus.

I hurt all over. And it seems impossible not to lie in bed and think things. Run them over and over through your head. Trying to make sense of what some people call an “adventure.”

I called it that once. Or twice. I think we were in the first few steps. But soon my feet wobbled. So did my heart. And the tears came. Like a flood. A storm.

I’ve been thinking that perhaps I should rename my blog “Coping in Kansas” and leave it alone. So much of the difficulty from this last year is recorded here. Yet, there are also unpublished blogs, texts saved in my phone, and memories of conversations over frozen margaritas. So much more than what stands on the screen. I forget that sometimes.

I forget the in-between. The tears not seen through a screen. The miles driven back home. The sighs and the breaths taken each day that I pull into the parking lot for my new job. I come over a hill and there it is—the entire mountain range.

Sometimes I fight back another tear.

I find it difficult to love again. To not fear. To have hope that the church will stop being so unfaithful and self-centered.

I’m weary of the tears at unexpected moments. I’m tired from the aches resting in my shoulders.

Worn out.

Last night a friend prayed with me and read Scripture over the phone. I don’t know what passage she read or what version but I remembered words about “what can man do to me?” so I searched today and came up with these words in a similar passage:

You’ve kept track of my every toss and turn through the sleepless nights,
Each tear entered in your ledger, each ache written in your book. (Psalm 56:8, The Message)

When I am speechless, He gives me the words. He is the One who counts my tears. He counts them because He is there with me for each one.

And there will come a day when there are no more tears.

For now, I keep driving up my hill to work and looking over it. To see what I find there.

Inspiration: September, Soccer, and Such

I can describe the last few weeks to you in two words: work and soccer.

Lots of it.

Work and Writing…

I walked into a familiar building on a Tuesday, with plans of how my new job would be. (Insert laughter here at the word “plans.”) In no time, my job went from parttime writer to fulltime editor with little time to blink. Though I’m on a big learning curve right now, I am excited about this new position. I love it already.

During that time, I was already in the process of taking on another new role as the managing editor of A Beautiful Mess. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate this website and the woman behind the message—Kristin Ritzau. I’m honored and excited to help facilitate this safe space for honesty and inspiration. Here’s a little bit about what I hope to share with the community over at A Beautiful Mess.

Time Travel…

On Labor Day, we took the girls to Rockledge Ranch, one of my favorite places in Colorado Springs. As a child, my mom recognized my love for Anne of Green Gables so she signed us up to volunteer at this historical site. I spent seven summers dressing up like a pioneer and leading tours. I enjoyed every minute of it.

Jeff and the girls had never been to this site in the time we lived here prior, so we took an afternoon to explore the buildings. I do love the cabin (think Little House on the Prairie), but love The Orchard House even more. I’ve kind of been obsessed with breakfast rooms for decades because of this house.

Soccer…

In between all of this, Jeff has been coaching a varsity soccer team with a friend, and I’ve been running our little ones to practice and games of their own. I’m so proud of Kyla. She’s really beginning to own her abilities as a team player and is learning to be tough. At an early practice, I heard her coach say, “Kyla, way to be aggressive out there. You were tough today.” My mommy heart melted.

Kyla gettin' to the ball!

Kae is playing soccer as well. In her own ways, she’s learning to be brave. Yesterday, she fell down in the second play of the game. She hit her head, scraped her elbow, and skinned both knees. She also got distracted by the bugs. But she got back in the game. She does her best to run hard. She also doesn’t like it when the kids take the ball after she’s managed to get it somewhere. During a practice, a kid came and got the ball away from her. She stomped up the field yelling, “Hey! I had that ball!” She’s got spunk. I like it.

Kae doing twirls during warm-ups

Domestics….

We still aren’t back in our home as we are waiting for our renters’ lease to end. (One week!) I’m thinking about how to decorate our old home in a new way. Let’s be honest. I’m going to have my mommy do it. In five minutes, she can do what takes me 10 hours. I’ll provide some pretty pictures for her to get inspiration though. (Maybe my mom can even figure out a way to make me a breakfast room?)

Reading…

I’m reading Brene Brown’s newest book titled Daring Greatly:How the Courage to Be Vulnerable Transforms the Way We Live, Love, Parent, and Lead. I’m about a third of the way through it. Most of what I’ve read is a recap of thoughts she offers in her videos, blog, and other books. However, I’m very much looking forward to the chapter about vulnerability in the work place and also the section about parenting.

This last month, I finished Tribes by Seth Godin. A good read! I also read Dreaming of More for The Next Generation: Lifetime Faith Ignited by Family Ministry by Michelle Anthony. Highly recommended for church leaders.

It’s Fall…

I love the changing leaves, the pumpkin spice lattes, and the occasional rainy days. Taking what I can get of this season. It probably won’t be as much as other years due to our long transition back into our home. I’m not even sure we’ll make it to a pumpkin patch this year. I’m okay with that fact.

I read in the current issue of Real Simple that stress levels for women have increased 18% in the last 26 years. Perhaps it’s because I keep seeing things like “Fall Bucket Lists” online. Whatever it is, it concerns me. I hope you’re able to find your favorite thing to do this fall and not worry about the rest. Enjoy that moment and everything it offers.

“Live each season as it passes, breathe the air, drink the drink, taste the fruit, and resign yourself to the influences of each.” -Henry David Thoreau

Sometimes in August

Sometimes in August, little girls help their great aunt water her plants…

Sometimes in August, I ask for something odd for my birthday like guacamole and the opportunity to drive to Denver to mingle with a bunch of people I don’t know so that I can meet one of my favorite bloggers/creators/storytellers in person…

Sometimes in August, my big, beautiful, brave girl starts third grade…

Or the sweet, littlest one begins playing soccer for the first time…

Sometimes I start a new writing job and contemplate other new projects with friends.

Sometimes (usually) in August, God does something big and unexpected. He knows this is the month I can handle changes. It’s might be because my birthday falls in this month and so I am already thinking about a shift. Or maybe I am ready for something new because school starts. It might be the bittersweet memories I have of volleyball season beginning. That something good can happen when we’re surrounded by others who are on our side.

Whatever it is, August is a gift.

Putting Down (New) Roots

I’m writing from my favorite Panera, with a perfect view of Pikes Peak and the sight of hot air balloons bobbing along the neighborhood--a definite sign that it’s almost Labor Day.

It feels so good to be back in our home community. The fire this summer helped me to realize that I had not deeply invested much when I lived here prior. I think I was afraid of the pain of pulling up roots to church plant somewhere else one day. So I guarded my heart.

But then the fire…I watched in horror as the flames raged live on the screen. As a child, I played with friends in that neighborhood. I went on Kyla’s field trip to Flying W Ranch just a couple years ago. It’s gone.

Inside, I screamed, “That’s my home. That’s my community! Those are my people!”

I was ready to come home from Kansas. So ready to be part of this people who never imagined that their town could be ravaged with such destruction. In some sense we are all rebuilding from the pain and hurt that took place in recent months. From the devastation and grief we could not have imagined last summer.

As part of my own rebuilding, I’m paying attention for ways to invest in the community of writers, artists, and spiritual directors here in Colorado. Several of the directors and counselors joined forces to help individuals work through the loss caused by the fire. They have been holding weekly meetings at my place of employment. I love seeing the community work together.

For several years, I’ve been looking at national conferences on faith and writing. Each year they come and go, and I just can’t get to them with our young family, working on projects with fierce deadlines, and Jeff finishing school. At times, I’ve been discouraged because I long to build relationships with other writers. I see them talking to one another online. They have something special together.

But, I think that perhaps I have been focused on the wrong group. What about the people here in Colorado who are listening and creating and connecting to people only minutes from them? National connections are not bad but I realize I have neglected my own neighbors.

I will not do that again. I want to dig down and put roots here. Deep roots. For myself, for our family, and for whatever God wants to do through us here in the present. I’m starting a new job here in Colorado Springs, with an old group of people that I love. I’m also hoping to attend a local writing retreat next month.

Community does not burn down. I’m so glad to be part of this one.

Thank you, Lord, for all you’ve done and what you will do. Bring healing and restoration. We need it.

Life Lines: Let It All Hang Out

I try to write this afternoon about my exit from the state to my east. The right words won’t come. The lines string out dull.

I walk away from my laptop and remember the laundry. I was supposed to hang it on the clothes line about three hours ago. I huff. Unsure if I am frustrated about the lack of lines or the looming laundry or just life.

Hanging clothes on a line seems like such a romantic thing. I especially thought that in my childhood. I used to run through the rows of sheets in Aunt Susie’s backyard, dreaming the spaces between the flowing fabrics were hallways in my castle.

I don’t feel much romance about it today though. I grab a towel and try to steady the wet, matted cotton next to the line while I pin. Not bad. The big gray t-shirt next to it is another story. Flop. Pick it up. Shake it off and start again. Pin by pin. Line by line.

As I move down the lines, I wonder if I have lost my words. If the state bordering my home has taken my writing from me. Do I have anything left to share with the world? How do I write without being angry or worried that someone will use it against me?

My vulnerability seems to be a liability recently. Is there really a safe place?

A few socks. Kyla’s princess panties. My favorite camisole with a couple of holes in it. I wear the camisole under my summer tanktops and can’t bring myself to get a new one. This one is so soft, even if it’s torn. I reveal the imperfection I usually hide.

It’s strange that I wonder about my vulnerabilities, yet here I am, letting other pieces of my life all hang out. For everyone on Carson Boulevard to see. I have never shown this part of myself to the world like this.

I go back to fill in the gaps between shirts with more socks. I pray. I ponder about dreams. I think there will be new dreams. Right? I wonder. And try not to feel afraid.

I think about the forthcoming wind that will do its thing with the laundry. No work of my own after all the clothing is hung. I trust that to the wind.

And so it is. With laundry lines and life lines. The work of the Wind. The Spirit. And if He deems that no words come for me on a quiet afternoon, so be it. I will trust the lines to come in another way. Or at another time. Or even not at all, if He wills.

For now, I’m wondering how long my laundry will take to dry. Will I be out removing clothing at midnight? I don’t know how to do this. How long do I wait?