I want to get away

That I'd be able to see that there is no somewhere where this will be easier. That an answer isn't going to be found somewhere out there. Somewhere where things are quiet. At a retreat. A getaway. A hiding place. But here with me. There is peace here with me. Here with me now is grace to be kind. Grace to be quiet. Grace to be. There's no where to go to where this peace will surpass understanding. Just the  now. Just the here. Just the me and the You and all the in between happening driving up to madness. That the escape and hiding place rests now. Here. Within the loudness of toddler needy babble. Within the bickering of stir crazy too close siblings. Within the now where later is too late. Where here and now all things are chaos and noise and mess. Where the schedule is a restricting mental body bind and all things are sketchy and fuzzy and jumbled. And maybe if I close my eyes long enough and think that all the quiet and peace is at hand, set strongly within me, that the ability to be quiet, to be a comfort and not another stressor, and to be still and desire nothing but to be in the here and the now where there is need and comfort that abounds and abounds all the greater with my very desperate need, then that in the here and the now all that is grace and peace would fill in the frustration of my lack.

What I'm reading changes me sometimes

"...that a budget is a moral document, and when you look at a church budget, you know what that church is about and what it values. In most cases, you will find that church budgets show that churches are self-centered. The reality is, many churches spend little on anybody or anything outside the church. If you look over almost any church budget, you will probably find that the church is paying its bills and taking care of its own needs. It has been said that the church should be the only club in the world that should exist for the benefit of its nonmembers. Few church budgets give evidence of that...Across the board, more than 90 percent of the church offerings we give on Sunday mornings stay inside the building (some denominations have as little as 2 percent going toward external, missional needs.) This is the antithesis of what the early church was doing. In the book of Acts, it says that the offerings were put at the feet of the apostles and were distributed to folks as there was need (4:35.)"  --Shane Claiborne//Tony Campolo, Red Letter Revolution

"We can sum up very quickly what people need to teach their own children. First of all, they have to like them, enjoy their company, their physical presence, their energy, foolishness, and passion. They have to enjoy all their talk and questions, and enjoy equally trying to answer those questions. They have to think of their children as friends, indeed very close friends, have to feel happier when they are near and miss them when they are away. They have to trust them as people, respect their fragile dignity, treat them with courtesy, take them seriously. They have to feel in their own hearts some of their children's wonder, curiosity, and excitement about the world. And they have to have enough confidence in themselves, skepticism about experts, and willingness to be different from most people, to take on the responsibility for their children's learning. But that is about all that parents need. Perhaps only a minority of parents have these qualities. Certainly some have more than others. Many will gain more as they know their children better; most of the people who have been teaching their children at home say that it has made them like them more, not less. In any case, these are not qualities that can be taught or learned in a school, or measured with a test, or certified with a piece of paper." --John Holt, Teach Your Own: the John Holt book of home schooling

"We Cannot Remove Pain-the Felt Reality of Evil-from This World
    I want to state an important truth from within the Christian worldview at this point. By removing pain from the human experience, Sam Harris is, in effect, trying to remove the felt reality of evil. There is one fundamental difference between God allowing a death to take place and me taking another life: God has the power to restore life, I don't. The story of evil is one part of a greater narrative. To ignore the greater narrative is to continue to raise particulars without accepting the general. In fact, there is no option left but to say there is no such thing as evil and there should be no such thing as pain....If it is possible in our finite world with our limited knowledge to be able to appreciate just one benefit of pain, is it not possible that God has designed this awareness within us to remind us of what is good for us and what is destructive? As horrendous as the illustrations may sometimes be, can we not see the moral framework that detects atrocities and resists tragedies? Could there be a greater, deeper answer than simply saying there is no God?....Wickedness is always excused as anything but the moral degeneracy that has resulted from each one of us becoming the god of God."  Ravi Zacharias, The End of Reason: A response to the new atheists 

Why have coffee past seven? Because it makes you crazy.

Because if I said all the things that there seem to be going on in my heart at any given time, I'd always be in tears. Because I think and think and think on my thoughts and why I think certain things and how and why certain things effect me and I think until my mind is racing. But sometimes it stops. Sometimes there are brief moments of clarity and I think that there is a purpose to all of the thinking.
Something about loving everyone.
Something about being open to everyone.
Something about being honest about my faults.
Something about being gracious with myself and my apparent special needs.
Something about not being quiet about the unique way I work.
About not being ashamed.
Something about that light flickering inside me.
Something about the big thing that is happening from the outside of the now institutionalized church.
Something about taking away its' glory.
Something about the hostility it breeds when it fails to meet the physical needs of the needy.
The emotional needs of the cast outs.
Something about the fault of ignoring the arts.
Something about love.
Something about honesty.
Something about the travesty that is being a beacon of light and a pillar of righteousness when one is a leader in the church.
Something about being above the falling.
Something about ignoring the frailty of the faulty human chosen to have His loved poured out in a clay vessel.
Something about failing to be quiet to listen.
To Him.
To others.
Something about respect.
Something about the failure of stewardship over this place we live.
Something about quiet.
Something about being broken for others.
Something about me not being able to be broken for others.
Something about being light.
Something about regaining the freedom once again that He gave so lavishly through the cross.
Something about something bigger than the smallness of one persons' vision.
Something about being so very human.
Something about respecting the writings of other very human humans.
Something about finding myself.
And finding that I am small.
Finding that I am silly.
So so silly.
Some thinking on the things men and women in power ignorantly spoke to quench who my small little me was.
Some thinking on the poison I spewed on others when I refused to think for myself.
Thinking on the irony of education and my lack.
Thinking on quiet.
The failed art of conversation.
The failed beauty of sitting alone.
Of listening for still small voice.
Of the travesty of strain man's vision can place on sacrament of marriage.
On the bullheaded foolishness loneliness sins to.
On how I have limits in my humanity.
On how the past is alive all at once with the present all too often in my reminiscences.
On how a perfect life, perfect marriage, perfect wisdom don't exist.
They are lies.
On contentment without bitterness.
And the peace through patience.
Something about being honest creating a usable clay vessel.
Vessel to be filled to be used, cracked, and broken and usedcrackedandbroken.
Broken often.
Often to be sorry and to wrought change.
Honesty the conduit to change.
Changing struggles to honesty to freedom from poison laced truth.
That I'd not be a poison.
That I'd not be a wall.
That I'd not be a soldier, but a listener and lover.
A talker only respectfully, but on the page as free bold vagabond.
On page fighting past fear.
On page free to free boisterous and please-be-quiet-you-talk-too-much carefree silly child again free again thinking in quiet me.
If only in incomplete fleeting doughy in the middle not finished hot dishes of fragments of thoughts.

and it was July the twelfth in two thousand and three and all the things in between

Like You never ignore those who cry out to you for help. Like You hold together oil and water for eleven plus years. Like you heal the misguided thinking of a very very young wife and mother. Like a running joke. Like a story too haphazard and disconnected to be cohesive and true. Like night and day. Still trying to mold and mix and shape them together to make one beautiful song. Like never quite finding balance. Like the fear that forces me back down the ladder to the high dive. Freezes me on solid branch perched above river. Like being an alien wanting to love a human. But trying. Always trying. Being thrust out and away to figure things out alone and with the still small voice. Like the pain of only being able to be held naked and vulnerable by a pure God embrace. Then moving on. Still moving on. Though wounds of slights still sting. Though the loneliness still separates. Though nothing, no not one thing, has come to us easily. And it's difficult grueling hard work. Though every minute is filled with a one with a need and sleeping alone beside you is a heavy weight on chest. Still there will be an effort to grow, somehow, to be one. One whole life out of two alien lovers. Dealt difficult hands. Pushing on to be okay with being okay. Pushing past the doubt and the worry. Like one small step forward and three steps back. Eleven years of working. Trying to talk though we speak each a unique and unintelligible  language. Like pushing to have an identity though all I am at times is wrapped up in you. Like not shutting out myself just to satisfy a shallow you. Like not shutting you out to protect a defiant me. But the hope of the good parts and the fruit of hard labors of love. The hope of one day fitting together as others enraptured in decades of love. That hope pushes walk forward to better times. Better times of you being you and me looking at you with all love and affection where staunch defensive me simply lets in you. And maybe that though all things feel at times a loss, that all things feel at times too daunting a thing to conquer, that maybe the three-fold cord will prove to bear fruit and bring apparently joined two into one. For smiling eyes and loving friendship. To unmentionable intimacy. To live beside, between, and together. To accept lightheartedly the oddity of us three. Unique beyond the minds of the reasonable. Confused and confounded at the socially acceptable. But standing still. Growing still. Developing on and maturing to grace. To be deeply in love. His perfect encompassing I AM. That we stand still unbroken in pieces, a miracle I marvel at. Over a decade of persistence in accomplishment to marvel at. Doing everything to do nothing but to allow generous Creator to take the fault and the blame. Leave to Him to be Himself. Mediating frustration code red. Stubbornly not to quit. Stubbornly not to walk out and away and out of. Though defenses push me there. Him to fix it. Him to smooth over. Miraculously answer deep calls in the night from depth of my deep. To answer and speak and move because He hears. He cares and He counts me worthy of all of Him. That I see, still in doubt and still unbelieving, that to fall deep into perfect Love's deep is to soften up to you and mend human slights. That I see that to allow You to love a broken pitiful me is to open up, yet again, to love with full power my also broken other half. That piece crucial and fractured. Just acceptable enough. To see Holy One's love and acceptance of heart. To sit in sweet peace of all that is ours out of control. That crazy life lived, began, and started too young might yet be a marvel to cherish and defend. And I blink and eleven years and four children have built us a kingdom. And willing unwilling we thrive, and unrestricted to thrive. And simple we two become a magical holy. And that you live daily at my side and me to sit daily in your presence transforms into a miraculous thing. And to sit and hold gaze with you a cutting force moving. That those years sit between us. That those children wander under foot and now almost at height. A wonder in speckled green alien eyes.

Highest hill calling

now what do you look like, perfect faith?
now what do you sound like?
Do You know what we're walking into?
Could you please let me know, give me a hint
that every little thing is gonna be okay.

and I was embraced and made a part of
A creator of
A partaker of
A new thing that hadn't existed before the effect of poor planning
That thing that collectively has twelve stepping feet
Sixty fingers to discover
And it's mine
And I'm accepted in this one thing that before me ne'er existed
And the tall one
The musical one
The quiet one
The he was mister right one
And magic was wrought when to him I clung
And I made him mature
And he made me calm
And all that is wrapped up in these things before unthinkable
Unimaginable
Small minds wonderful
And now searching for belonging stops because it's filled
That dull ache to be parented and rest in being taken care of
    Is eclipsed by deep belly laughs and walking around in bare feet
Passing out hydrocortisone cream
Taking orders for ice cream
How a one could abandon their tinies?
Curse their babies?
Blame their babies?
Created small hearts place me at home
Make me at home
Make my home a home
Tiny big voices make the unparented parent satisfied in home

And faith wraps it shut

thump say speak. I speak, says the one. mini-mex muse revealing tex-mex itty bitty one.

making the change
breaking away
friend, my fear
so near
push away all hope of smiles
all the promise of the not yet known
and what we don't know
don't know what the repercussions will be
just we'll wait and see
and the yelling and they get so mad
wonder where they get that from
and the love that's so deep they weep and weep
their joy overflows into crinkled eyes
the joy of the ice cream man's jingle
the mad rush for the money hard earned
just a vacation
just a vacation
for the rest of their childhood


dear friend eclipsed by sweet smiling eyes



never going back to the semi-cultish house of worship contained in the sacrifice of the few for themselves
-careful not to offend the little
but their thing is offensive to me
offensive to that thick book I still thickly read
and all of those platitudes
those commandments we all sometimes dread
and read
and read
and read
magic thick book spoke life once upon a time
spoke direction in the truth it yelled at me
the message it taught to me
then the shifting of the meaning and the shadow of the one man's vision and his calling
and breaking away
though years have past
is still thickly stuck to the small hairs
is still twisted captor seeking to please that one man's vision
vision
singing be thou my vision
and raising ebenezer
and the last of the last and the fallen in the past
and then there is all of the sentimentality of the teenage youth group hanging on to me and pulling me deeper into the man's vision and the truth wrapped up in the warped and the managing of all of the hurt and the pain and the hurt and the fighting with the mom-child and the wanting to be better
to be better at the thick book reading
the thick book studying
and the long simple prayers admired-er
off to the oasis in the desert to sit and reflect and dig deeper and deeper
and there was refuge there
and there was calm there
and there was camaraderie there
and mission there
and understanding there

but past the busted hopes of being a part of magical all-is-virtuous-of-this-vision-most-magical
flat topper wasn't key to living out thick book
thick book
and churchy organism took
and took
and took

and readjusted sad smiles fell swiftly through the cracks
and meetings turned to meaning
and holding onto sacred life
when talking and listening was of the utmost importance
and though it always felt like the faith was out of reach, same struggled smiles held my smallness close in
and it grew
and it grew
and the laughter healed the misunderstood mismanaged healing mexi-mini me
and they held me up and I helped them up
then I left
I left
to alone and aloof and the pretty blooming trees
to box house living and just the one red friend

and I thrived
and thrived
and guiltily thrived
what of when questions breed more questions
and searching into that mini-mex proves unending
and the secular bad'man institution was a refuge to breathe
sanity in smiling faces
normalcy to pour into semi-cultish slash wounds
and of the three little ones who are thriving
and smiling
and smiling
and smiling
and of the tiny one born in the away place
the alone place
the lone red hand to hold in forceful agony
that victorious calm
to see tiny face held in swollen arms
mexi-tiny strength displayed
that questions unanswered and pains inexplicable
could maybe
not be the keeping to be tiny
the odd fitting could possibly be that perfect fitting smallish one to smile crinkle eyes alight
and tapping keys on cheap keyboard could be key to tapping small tex-mex perspective
that perplexive
long time in coming
tapped out voice
in conclusion of
those years in mom-child's care
those years in semi-cultish incompatibility
those years with the lone red sounding board
confusing one sided long thought out perspective
voiced perspective

old friend fear of rejection
push the publish
push the publish

quiet palpitating beat of the heart

quiet

for to listen to the rejection and the criticism of those thoughts and the things that they will question when to me they seem so plain and the talk of the past and the pressure that it breeds
that the satisfaction of this fallen one will be clean
and clean
and clean
and clean

because you were always mean
because you were always different
you were always just a little bit off
but that little one
that quiet face
you don't have a quiet voice, now do you

share the thing
share the thing

still your self
settle in
and the open
and the vulnerable
begets being heard
that in fear

that those impressions that wrecked small frame could soothe those stinging
in a smallish way

share and no

scared for the sympathy
sad empathy

so I hung all the diapers and there are minutes to kill

banana bread filled stuffing
matronly tight now puffing
tactical matrix debating debacle
tackle this hustle
to bustle
to bust
get fixed on the things above
where hope and calm and faith commonly shove
perfect love
perfect love
perfect love
from above
above love
above love
above´s love

fixed gaze to praise
most highest of deities
most highest of purities
the duty to stay
stay fixed on this highest of callings
this following of this calling
to the place
the place next
where there will be trials I bet
trials to fix those weary eyes on above
above´s love
and the calling to be in all that there is in the perfect simplicity of the beauty of above
above´s love
push to shove
and shove
and shove