The mornings I desire, the days I have been given

"For if I could please myself I would always live as I lived there. I would choose always to breakfast at exactly eight and to be at my desk by nine, there to read or write till one. If a cup of good tea or coffee could be brought me about eleven, so much the better" and on to reading, writing, talking, walking. But "It is no doubt for my own good that I have been so generally prevented from leading it, for it is a life almost entirely selfish. Selfish, not self-centered: for in such a life my mind would be directed toward a thousand things, not one of which is myself" (Surprised by Joy 142).
   For if I could live to please myself I would always have times like this morning. The thunder startled me awake soon after five, and I wrapped myself in a flannel blanket and went unwillingly downstairs. But it was a weekend, so instead of preparing for work I could go and stand on the porch, watching the lighting freeze time as the air became a three dimensional curtain of motionless raindrops. The sound of falling rain went on and on. I soon came back inside and dressed, created breakfast, taking my time, enjoying the food. Then, with the thunder still sounding but the lightning far off, I went and got my food and cash for the week. I drove home in the dark with flashes of lightning and the music filling my head and heart as it always does when there is nothing else around. Time slowed and stopped again, as I disappeared in the darkness and the music, being filled with nothing of myself; being filled with something else.
     I came home, put the groceries away, and choked on the jalapenos in the newly-made cornbread my roommate offered me. It was good to make her laugh. I went upstairs, where my candle was still flickering and the lights were off, took off shoes and coat, and went for a walk in the rain.
   The first part of the walk was the river, the river roaring, its sound louder than my own singing. The tenseness left my shoulders as I turned from sidewalk into forest. The stream had become a river, for the storms had been pouring themselves out to the earth for three days. The river rose so close to the path the beginnings of the fenceposts between the path and the drop were under water. I walked for almost an hour, avoiding streets, and gradually entered the borders of the faery realm. It began with an awareness that there would be no-one else around, for it was before seven on a weekend and raining, so only the eccentric or the mad were out and about. I could not see under the trees, and could barely see the path, but the watery pools and soaking leaves were cool beneath my feet. I became aware of the faerie when a deer paused just ahead, its stillness an indication of its caution. I slowed, stopped, and barely moved as it stood waiting for me to declare myself foe or imagination. But at last I wiped a raindrop from my face and it fled, my movement scaring it back into the woods. Later I saw two fawns, whose caution was the echo of the deer's but whose curiosity almost caused them to come closer; then they too turned and fled, but the presence of others remained. I loved the walk, the river, the life, and the presence in my mind of those who dwelt in wood and shadows, never clearly seen but beautiful beyond the knowledge of the human. I turn back several times when the path led me back to the sidewalks and roads, wishing I could have dwelt in the world I didn't belong in for longer. But the back held beauty too, the man-made flower gardens guarded by pavement borders holding the sense of life and stillness that only comes after rain. Passing by a pine tree I saw each pine needle was letting fall drops of water, and every flower close to the bat was covered with the small circles of water that is finally still. Life was growing, soaking in, and in the wake of the power of the thunder and lighting came the stillness of the life that they give. The passing of one to another reminded me that the loss of something loved can be happen without mourning as something good and beautiful comes in its place.
    Coming home, I made some tea, finished the errands for the day, and sat down to read. I'm reading a book I love, A Severe Mercy, where the author and his wife know the hunger to explore the earth, to cherish beauty, to test their boundaries of what their minds know, to study the challenges of life, and have a life filled to the brim with love, laugher, loss, and beauty. In it the two, not yet Christians, record thoughts like this:
The best argument for Christianity is Christians: their joy, their certainty, their completeness. But the strongest argument against Christianity is also Christians--when they are sombre and joyless, when they are self-righteous and smug in complacent consecration, when they are narrow and repressive, then Christianity dies a thousand deaths. But, though it is just to condemn some Christians for these things perhaps, after all, it is not just, though very easy, to condemn Christianity itself for them. Indeed, there are impressive indications that the positive quality of joy is in Christianity--and possibly no where else. If that were certain, it would be proof of a very high order. 85
   Or perhaps like this: "Then we encountered the Germans--the 'demythologizers' […] our real 'salvation' from these wreckers came through our recognition of the quite unverifiable fundamental assumptions […] Christ's word were misunderstood by His followers and the early church though quite clear to [these] critics. Assumption: the mind of the infinite God is not unlike that of a German critic" (106-107).
      I would I could spend most of my life like this, thanking God for rain and thunder, walking in the beauty of His creation with the knowledge that so much more lies beyond what I see, whether it be fairy or just the miracle of His creation happening and rebirthing, then coming back and reading with errands done and work accomplished, then recording a morning to the glory of God. I would I could spend all of life with eyes wide open to beauty from early in the morning on, though I would it would be here and in Japan and Africa, in Europe and Asia. Those are my dreams, to travel there, but dreams can be different than desires, and I desire more mornings like this one. God's gift of this morning is precious and beautiful.
    But even while walking, though less while reading, I was fighting to keep heartache from my mind. Some of it is what I watched, the sad moments in the stories that speak to me perhaps because of what I too have lost. I stopped reading before the wife became ill, not wanting anything to curve my mind away from happiness, then realized too late it already had, for I read the portion where they lived at Oxford, and much in it reminded me of the joy of my own time at school, and then I read where they left it behind, where a friend of theirs says "'This, you know, is a time of taking in--taking in friendship, conversation, gaiety, wisdom, knowledge, beauty, holiness--and later, well, there'll be a time of giving out.' Later, when we were scattered about the world. Now we must store up the strength, the riches, all that Oxford had given us, to sustain us after. She stood there, Oxford, like a mother to us all with her hands heaped with riches" (118). But that chapter ends, too, with a good note, with C. S. Lewis striding away after saying "I shan't say goodbye. We'll meet again," and then on "reach[ing] the other side, he turned round as though he knew somehow that I would still be standing there in front of the Eastgate. Then he raised his voice in a great roar that easily overcame the noise of the cars and buses. Heads turned and at least one car swerved. 'Besides,' he bellowed with a great grin, 'Christians NEVER say goodbye!'" (125).
    This morning seems a respite, a cessation of the battle against drudgery, against the mundane work week that makes my soul cry out for life. I'd wondered, on my walk this morning, which was harder, the cross, or Christ's 33 years of daily living with humans. I know our idiocy cannot compare to suffering the wrath of God, but my mind idly wondered which would be worse, hours and hours of agony and grief that would seem like an eternity, or the daily frustrations and temptations of living as a perfect, godly man among those whose sin turns into fools or rebels. But then I realized it wasn't just thirty-three years, Christ--God--has dealt with the fools, the fallen, every since Eden. He's guided, loved, and grown us since Adam and Eve, through history even down to today. His love is overwhelming in its patience and tenderness, in its demand to hold nothing back and yet to be sustained in everything by God Himself. Many of the songs I hear on the Christian radio capture the idea of sacrificing everything for Him, but so often make it a one-time offering, a glory of giving up everything; I find Him asking for the daily sacrifice of working well in the small things. Yet He said those who are faithful in small things will be faithful in great ones, so why am I surprised? Yet even in the small, I fail; even here I need to be sustained by Christ.
   But though I fail, He does not forget my desires, the things I long for, and after a day of failure and complaint yesterday, He still gave me this morning, gave me the desires of my heart. God, give me grace to give back gratitude, rather than holding too tightly to time that is passing! The desire to keep what He gives longer than He intends to give it always spoils the gift; under my tight grip it crumples it into ashes, instead of becoming a beautiful memory. I have written this that I may look back and remember, and remembering, thank God for the gifts of this morning. He does give us the desires of our souls, and hears us when we cry for them. Thank God that I am under His mercy, and that it was His pleasure to give me a morning such as this. May the grace given here sustain me as I go into another week, and may I wonder at His kingdom in that week as much as I did here.

Fire

Don't play with fire; you'll get burned.
    That's what came to mind this morning, after my housemate's dog woke me up at 2:30 A.M. (again), and by 3:21 I gave up trying to go back to sleep at watched characters on a computer screen challenge evil and champion good. I watched them say love was indestructible; I watched from 3:30 - 6:30. I finished the 13 episodes of the show I'd fallen in love with, last week or the week before.
   I gave addiction three hours to set in.
   I played with fire.
   I sat down to pray before devotions this morning, and wondered why I felt so afraid. I felt afraid, not of God, for I do not think I disobeyed, nor of the power of the addiction, for He had already won this war Wednesday night, Thursday night, and Wednesday afternoon. Three battles, all victories; He answered those prayers.
   I felt afraid of the coming day. I had loved watching this story and playing with it in my imagination, but work starts in half an hour, and I crack inside at the idea of leaving my world, a world that has joy and heart. I realized that I fear the world after having fun now, because the world seems to be anything but fun. It hurts; and hurt birthed endurance, but joy birthed fear, for when I have joy, I have something to lose. More fearful still, I have something I may be asked to give up.
   I swore to God I would follow where He led, that I would not turn back, later, that I would not say no. When He asks for something, anything, either through circumstances or through my knowledge of my duty, I must give it up.
   Giving things up breaks me; having things that I love sets my heart on fire. That fire can consume my promises, my will, my time, and myself, and the more I play with the thing I love the more I feed the flames.
   But it shouldn't be that way. Eden was joy unshadowed, love without sin, passion unrestrained because there was nothing to restrain. Love God so much that anything else cannot compare to that love, and you may love everything else even more than you did before.
    So I asked, in devotions, not that I would stop playing with fire, but that the fire would a crucible that molded me into God's image, a warmth that spread to friends and family, a light that guided people to God, His light reflected back towards the world and to Him. I ask that I can hold all I love out to Him, willingly letting Him do as He will, but also that I would continue to love and to enjoy all good things, praising Him in that love, alive, warm, and filled with light as I enjoy the blessings coming from His hand. For the knowledge that something is from God can direct my gaze back to the Giver, and from His hand even fire is a blessing. If it burns, it burns away the worthless; it leaves everything that is good behind.
    I want no other flame; I need no other fire.

Reading - A Blog

   My sister has asked me to create a blog that reviews what I'm reading; I've been thinking that suggestion over for the past few days - to create such a blog would have several pros and cons.
   First, there's several sights out there that do the same. My college roommate has one. There is no lack of blogs, opinions, or readers on the internet, and if I do create a blog wherein I critique what I read, it would have to be with the humility that not only may I be wrong, I may also be insignificant. Writing something does not guarantee having it read. In some ways this may be a good thing, as it would be great for my character, and my sense of humor, to realize I can be insignificant. But that realization should not interfere with the quality of what I create, and it could be difficult to strive for excellence in the insignificant. To pour my mind and time into something, only to have it sit invisibly in an intangible warehouse called "the cloud," would be hard. Yet in Paul's time he told Christians to do all things well, not as those who please their masters but those who work to the glory of God; that should still hold true today.
   Second, if I did it, I would have to devote time to writing and time to reading, and I'm hard pressed to find the time to read at the moment, much less write. But even while writing this (in the ten remaining minutes I have before getting ready for work), I realize that it could be one way of counting my blessings, for if I make sure to write a post every time I finish a book, that would show me better than any other way I have how much time God gives me to read. Since I love reading, I never have enough time to read; because I have that mindset, I rarely stop and thank God for the time He gave me to read, or realize how much time I have been given to do so.
   On the side of the pros, writing about the books would force me to think about what I read. Right now, that would be a remarkable blessing, for I have been reading The Two Towers (book 3), The Four Loves, For You Departed, and The Prince (by Rivers, not Machiavelli). Once I finish those, I'm hoping to read A Severe Mercy, The Return of the King, Too Late the Phalarope, and The Prophet. Most of those have truth it would be good for me to remember (and meditate on, for having read The Two Towers so many times, I find I still forgot much of what it does not state but says well). On the other side of that coin, the site would provide accountability, for I am also hoping to read Starcrossed, Messenger, and The Golden Door, and to publish what I am reading (whether what I publish is read or not) is a good means of accountability, for if I am ashamed to write about what I am reading, I am unable to say it was well for me to read. Unless, of course, I turn to the human frailty of justifying myself by explaining myself, whether that justification is valid or not.
   I think I'm thinking about this too much - and I have three minutes left, and much to do. God, whatever I end up doing, may it be to your glory. Amen.

Your Kingdom Come

I have learned to love phrases of the Lord's prayer, for in thinking about them, and coming to know God more, they mean so much more. For instance, for:

"Your kingdom come,"

Then the eyes of the blind shall be opened,
   and the ears of the deaf unstopped;
then shall the lame man leap like a deer (even I cannot do that!),
   an the tongue of the mute sing for joy.
For waters break for in the wilderness,
   and streams in the desert;
the burning sand shall become a pool,
   and the thirst ground springs of water;
in the haunt of jackals, where they lie down,
   the grass shall become reeds and rushes.

And a highway shall be there,
   and it shall be called the Way of Holiness;
the unclean shall not pass over it.
   It shall belong to those who walk on the way
   even if they are fools, they shall not go astray.
No lion shall be there,
   nor shall any ravenous beast come upon it;
they shall not be found there,
   but the redeemed shall walk there.
And the ransomed of the LORD shall return
   and come to Zion with singing;
everlasting joy shall be upon their heads;
   they shall obtain gladness and joy,
   and sorrow and sighing shall flee away.

No physical marring, only physical joy as we were meant to be. No struggle with our work and our world, only God's glorious creation, the ones pictures have caught, where the beauty takes my breath away. No temptation to sin, only true, joyful, musical fellowship with those I have come to love more than any other. This is why it is so easy to pray, "Your kingdom come."