Nothing can break quite like He can...

It'd be hard to say exactly everything that has presence enough to alert me, to appeal to my cluttered mind; fervently requiring all of my attention in some moment of some day amidst all the "somethings" I'm already attentive to. It is safe to assume that anything energetically beckoning me into an act of emotional labor will catch the focus of my eye.

There is always the Orchestrator pursuing me into Beauty and Truth and most days there are always the questions that are brought to my mind, the ideas that jolt me into a counterfeit reality and leave me thinking I am not worth much at all.

There are a lot of times I have been sad in my life but very few times I have staked claim to the overstated and under-healed entity that this “thing” is. I don’t think I’m even quite there yet - but if you stand close enough, if you look at me long enough you’ll be able to hear the breaking. It is not like the earth shattering, whole body collapsing, tear escaping, “breaking” most people are used to. This is not hollywood bound, not even suitable for some dramatic French indie... and that is why it was so deafeningly alarming, so subtly catastrophic.

Nothing can wake a distracted, emotionally charged, young lady quite like this thing can.
Checking-out of this life and finding a welcoming hiding place, a room dark enough to make even the hider unaware of the tears streamlining down their almost dried and cracked face, is no option I am aware of. And I am coming to think hiding is nor even something I want to embrace. My desire for authenticity does not just beckon me to be vulnerable but it also leads me into the shattered places of my heart - resurrecting those quick fix heartaches I wanted nothing to do with.

This type of sadness is the most evident suspect once it has unveiled itself to the target. I bet I would have seen it in Hannah’s eyes when she realized she was barren. I bet you could have felt it in the presence of Joseph as his brothers stripped him of his coat. And what of Elijah, when the Lord warned him that He would suffer the greatest loss and yet he was to move on and continue to be a prophet to the people of Israel.

This sorrow does not force me into a melancholy withdraw from life mostly because of the rose petals that will be picked up from where the ash used to lay. There will be the “when Adam first met Eve” feeling. When “Jesus left the desert victorious and focused” feeling. When “Sarah felt the first kick” feeling.

These are the unfathomable plans I can’t seem to imagine - the prospering, not lacking, realities that I will one day experience.

Until then I am in no other state than to inform myself that this breaking is the slow process of the pot realizing it is only the pot. I can feel the breaking, myself inching toward the ledge with each piece of knowledge, with each unconceivable sunset, with each tender word. I’m on a path that leads to the ground and I’ll shatter.
Albeit, I can’t seem to think of a better work of art to present to the Maker than a completely broken and humiliated self. I imagine the first words I’ll want to say will be, “I'm broken for you.” but He’ll probably beat me to the punch, He’ll probably speak up and say, “My delight is in you, beauty. Beauty.”

I’ll look back and think of this sorrow that wakes with a vengeance. That wakes commanding, “Let’s start writing this script. You’re believing lies He’s not speaking. You’re accepting fears that are conquered. There are plans for you to be sowing and reaping."

I can see the chisel in the hands of my Savior and right now I feel like I am in pieces but one day will see that I am just in Peace.


“Dear brokenness...You stand quite close to me... your breath is heavy within...you’re starring down my heart. You seize my life in an attempt to allow Him to seize all of me. Welcome to my muddled, calloused, inconsistently steady, permanently passionate heart. I’d like to ask you to make haste, but I think it is best you take your time.”

“She was deeply distressed and prayed to the Lord and wept bitterly.” 1 Samuel 1:10

“For He Himself is our peace, who has made us both one and has broken down in His flesh the dividing wall of hostility by abolishing the law of commandments expressed in ordinances, that He might reconcile us both to God in one body through the cross, thereby killing the hostility.”
Ephesians 2:14

“I Paul, write this greeting with my own hand. Remember my chains. Grace be with you.”
Col 4:18

It's a mental paralysis

It’s when the doubts forget how to leave you.
When the lies are no longer a distant voice
but a tyrant out for your freedom…repressing your choice.
They’re ransacking the soul.
Destroying you, contorting the truth, making room for control.

The repetitive fight for beauty and value moving into the defensive.
No longer a testimony rhythmically and passionately aggressive.
You’re now just the monotonous and lulling sonnet that has lost its writer.
Faded not vibrant, reckless not tracking, wavering as this army’s grip seizes you, you who were once a fighter.

Still your mind is trying not to rely on these tears
All the while your voice has collapsed and rotted over, no longer keeping at bay those damning fears.

Weary
This valley too lonely
This heart has forgotten its beat

His voice sounds like a roar.
Your bones crushing under His will. Accepting the burden you wait for the ending, a time to restore.

You try to keep it but it escapes your care: you draw your last breath…
Submit and let Him know you accept your death.

The metaphorical ground cracks and breaks.
The dressed up sheep watch their accusations become as ash and soak into some unknown deep.

Into the Holy room you saunter
Your feet weak but knowing no stumble or hidden falter

You must have seemed like a misbehaved beast.
His acceptance molds you – a softened clay, you become the least.

This blessing is not what you’d think
But His voice keeps the tempo
….your heart has regained its beat.







*And just to think, that was only the death of today.



And there it is. I found my poem.
I always had my inspiration (His pursuit and grand love) - but it takes time to put something like that into some kind of coherent and honoring thought.

If you want - you can sing with me too

Short paragraph: I could do that.
Short story: with some time and inspiration...I’m all over it
Poem (short or long) and I’m out of my element. It is interesting that my ultimate literary love and my initial allurer to writing now has me hesitating to pick up a pen.

Encouragement: Charles Bukowski wrote his short stories beginning at age 24 - he didn’t begin writing poetry until 35. Dim as it may be; this small fact offers hope!

I recently read his poem “The Snow of Italy”. It is frightening in an attractive and almost disquieting way:

“...there is moss on the walls and the stain of thought and failure and waiting...”

Just one good sentence, if I can produce just one good sentence then it is all downhill from there. I read that from a famous writer once (can’t remember his name), this was his remedy for writer’s block.

Anyway, here is my day (it is not a poem - it is more like a rambling, possibly disguised as a poem)

“I’m Afraid There’s A Hole in My Brain” plays in accelerating manor thru my lilac cell.
(Lilac is not my color of choice...but it is more so than the other option, black).
For some reason I think my life resembles the lyrics of the song...and each time I hear it, I am more convinced.

I rollover and hit ignore
but now I can’t ignore the welcoming of Tuesday.
My alert mind is more effective than any alarm clock.
The day proceeds with Cheerios, soy milk, and long put off errands.
It is warm outside.
It is not snowing.
...and those 2 facts produce a decision to get a ICED latte.
God is close, like He always is.
Today I make myself aware of His presence - and it is more difficult than usual.
Ordinary days usually are.
(Not like when I am praying with 12 other girls on a musky concrete floor before bed that we be protected from Malaria and the Burmese who reside 15 minutes from our hostil. We don’t pray for protection from the large spider anymore because we killed it the night before. And it was large, if it was up to me I would consider it a mammal - and that is that.)
Anyway, you don’t have to remind yourself He is close in times like those - His presence is the only thing that doesn’t seem surreal. It is the ONLY comfort.

I listen to Carla Bruni because I’m not into English right now.
I read Charles Bukowski (please rub off on me).
I drink Red Bull for the first time - there’s no good explanation for that.
I try to pop my zit (yuck)
I pray (serenity)
I call my friend (and laugh)
I drink Fiji Natural Water (i don’t care what stream this came from I’m never paying that much for water again!)
Today I only ALMOST cried
Today I realized how easy it is for me to avoid what I respect so much (honesty)
Today - I’m kind of over it



Ok, so I am an expert at rambling - why hasn’t that come onto the scene yet? If Sandra Lee can open up a can of soup and call it a cooking show then I am sure I can publish all these random, circular, thought processes and make a few bucks-ha!


Anyway, there is a poem knocking itself around in my mind. I keep trying to perfect it (i.e. I have all the words but I don’t know where to place them - and that is the difference between a dictionary and an Emily Dickinson)!

This isn't just any kind of ink ~!~

Here.
Here is my pen.
I want you in my life - I want you to write yourself into my life.
I want you to know me, like “quote my heart” know me.
I want it to be an epic story - in a captivating quiet kind of way.
In a, “Wow, I didn’t know the accordion and the guitar sounded so well together” kind of way.
I want to read the story out loud so my mind can process the words and my heart can make sense of the well composed sentences. I want to be left resonating with nostalgia meets charm; Somewhere Over the Rainbow meets Stay Little Valentine; Damien Rice meets Comtine D’un Autre Ete: L’apres Midi (Yann Tiersen)


Please write it with Him. He is the best author I know. Becasue He knows me better than anyone else.

He writes the best stories.

Like when He wrote me into life and i was left in the hospital for months threatened by death - but I’m not dead. He started my life out with quite the bang!
Or when He wrote Maryn into my life with a spontaneous trip to Texas and then reconnected us months later and now I have such a dear friend who has sharpened me and encouraged me in ways I had no idea I needed. But He knew - so He wrote her in!
Or the time He wrote my wonderful Jamie in (at the perfect time) on yet another unplanned trip to Florida. She looked at me on the long drive and said, “Brianne, boys don’t think like you do.” And I knew she was going to be like a rock for me-ha!
I love that time when I got in the car with my dad to make the long trip to WV. I silently allowed tears to stream down my face from yet another unwelcome broken heart. Without words my dad held my hand and let me cry. That story is never far from me - I am so glad He wrote that one in!
I could go on forever - there was that time my mom and sister and I blasted The Righteous Brothers and had a dance party late into the night (and it was a school night-ha)!
There was that time in Peru when Agusto asked me to adopt him. The time in Thailand when Furn would put her head on my shoulder and tell me her mom was dying from cancer...

So here is my pen - you can write yourself in. Then...I’ll let you read me like a book.

Hush little Baby, don't you cry...

It’s 12:24am and I’m not asleep.
But I haven’t slept for days.
It takes me approx 30 minutes (depending on how tired I am) to go from eyes open, head on pillow, full consciousness to REM sleep. In that 30 minutes I will turn probably 3 times to finally end up on my left side. I will put on way to many blankets but end up with my feet uncovered. I will think. And tonight, I will probably cry.

It’s not the unnecessary turning or the routine blanket process I am weary of, it’s the thinking. I want to skip that process. I’m too tired to cater to my analytical mind and too awake to fall quickly asleep unaware of its presence.

I’ll think about the children’s hostile in Mae Sot. I’ll think about waking up at 5:30am to join the kids and sing “I love the mountains.” I love that song but not as much as I love how it sounded coming out of their mouths. They sang it in unison. The sweet harmony and the peaceful words that lifted from their lips, in between emerging yawns, found their way outside of the tin roofed building and into the brown field. Their synchronization and small voices woke up the birds; they woke up the nearby pigs, and the stray dogs. They woke up the widowed grandma sleeping nearby and, simultaneously, they woke up my heart. Their song was beautiful but not like pretty polished rehearsed beautiful. It was hopeful abandoned passionate praise beautiful. I sang it too. I closed my eyes and pulled my blanket close. I forgot about the bugs, the concrete floor, and the brisk air for those moments.

I love the mountains
I love the waterfalls
I love the blue skies
I love the flowers
Thank you God for making them
I love you God
I love you God
I love you God

He is not so far from us.
For the Bible and my parents and my youth pastors and my friends tell me so.
But with all my “knowing” that He is close I wanted to understand too. (Job 42)

He is close, so close. I know because He showed me that time in Pattaya when I was speaking with the woman at the bar and she told me she hopes the love of her life will come rescue her from this lifestyle. He showed me when the woman in prison grabbed my hand after I prayed for her and she sat there and cried and nodded her head. When the little girl in Mae Sot came up to me and adorned my head with the flower crown she made. She hugged me and said, “You are wonderful. Very very beautiful.”

I didn’t know. I didn’t know. I didn’t know.

So if I go to sleep right now I’ll think. I’ll wish I could feel Him again, even though He spoke to me and told me I won’t always feel His presence. I won’t always see clearly – not on this earth.

Although, I’m not so focused. And as long as I’m being so honest (thanks sleep depravation) I might as well say that in that 30 minutes I’d think about me too. How unlovely. I’d think about how I have to get a job as soon as I get back to the Springs. I’d think about how I’m supposed to figure out what career I need to pursue and how I thought going to Australia and Thailand would give me more clarity – but it only opened more doors. It’s not options I’m after here – I need more paths, less options. But then I’d think about not being worried about that because He has always been faithful loving – and those 2 characteristics together are brilliant, unfailing. Then I’d think about boys…mmm, more like the boy. I’ll think about the 5 lbs I gained in Australia. And then I’d just pray before I entered some kind of mid life crisis. I’d doze off in prayer to Him.
Tonight, His character is my lullaby.


So that is why I can’t sleep. It’s my mind. It’s high maintenance.


“Behind all your tears, there’s a smile.
Everything
Everything
Everything
You mean everything to me.”
-Ben Harper-

I want to own a Top Hat...to greet people with the slight tapping on the stiff brim.

Attention all readers, could I be so rude?
How could I miss out on this for so long? Here is my mood/process/emotion for this day:

This is important. If you know me, you can tell my mind’s processing ability in that particular day by what I am listening to…

Listening to Ingrid Michaelson: Breakable

Wanting to see: a comedy (not to be confused with a romantic comedy)

I am laughing at myself because it is cold here in NC but all my suitcase holds is the tank tops, sandals, and skirts I have worn for the past 6 months while being in hotta (extra “t” and “a” added because it was not just hot…it was hotta) Aussie land and Thailand. So yes, I am rocking my sandals and tank top while these dedicated bucks drinkers I am surrounded by are wearing the stylish scarf’s and leather boots that were approved by some fashionista for this season. (I think that sentence I just composed was a freakishly long run-on. Hmmm-horrifying)! Anyway, I look clearly uniformed by what the weather was going to be like today.

Currently I am sitting in Starbucks drinking a grande coffee light frappe. Inspired by my dear friend Kathleen who I connected with in Australia.

I have missed writing…wasn’t able to process much while I was gone. My thoughts are unleashed and I have a feeling this blog is going to be inundated with what my heart has held in for so long…

Play on, play on…

ba da dum

I must be in America now.
Cars are on the other side of the road. The Starbucks barista greets me, “How are you?” I’m taken back, didn’t she mean to say, “How youse going luv?” even a simple Thai greeting, “Swatee Kha” would have shocked me less.

Late night laughter with my sister curled up in the same oversized, and to my enjoyment, overstuffed baby blue comforter on her couch. I must be in America.

You know that feeling. The one that never goes away and you want to cry but you press on clinging onto God, knowing He knows…the incredibly deep aching for the comfort of the laughter of your sister, the good talks with your brother, the hug of your mother, the protection of your dad that is ushered in by his presence? I know that feeling so well…

This place my heart resided in for 6 months, but not in sin did I covet these things… only in the remembrance of the great blessing of the Lord. My heart lives here no more…I’m in America.

Could anyone who has seen the poverty and inconsolable pain of the majority of the world stand on American soil and think over and over again, “Why was I born in a hospital in a thriving country? Why not a slum next to the trash dump?”

But I am not going to stand on some soap box (I feel like the only soap box I have is how much I hate soap boxes) and proclaim how great or how awful America is. What I know is that I have seen poverty, I have seen wealth and I have seen people who understand where the quality and treasure of life is found. People who live in poverty, people who live without worldly want. I have found that both situations are difficult to live in…and I don’t want to hear from those people who favor one or the other.

Thank you Abba, that you have made me an alien to this world. Thank You that You have gone to prepare a place for the beloved followers.

Francis Thompson said that if it weren’t for the absence of love from his mum and the discomfort of home created by his missing father he probably never would have left. I think that it is because of the love of my mother and the ever-present encouragement of my dad, the comfort of home they created, that provoked me to leave. Some may say it is harder to leave a family behind when there is much love but for me, it made it easier to leave…knowing that I have the support of a family…the presence of a home to think of.

So, I am back. Prayers are much appreciated…I do not know what He has willed me to come back to. So far I have come back to loss and to change. While I have been irreversibly refined over the past 6 months, I see and have understanding that so too my dear friends and family have changed and grown. Hallelujah, He works on behalf of those who love Him (2 Chronicles 16:9)