Category Archives: God

A dirty, little gospel.

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The palm of my hand stopped sweating somewhere around the 13-minute mark.

Finally. I was feeling comfortable and my shoulders were loosening up. He’d taken my hand at the start of the story saying, “Here,” as he stretched it out to me. I’d only known him for two hours but his hand reaching out to me, like a crutch to lean upon as I spoke, was a sense of home in those Northern Georgia hills that night.

I bobbed and weaved and the led the dinner table through a story I’d told to people dozens and dozens of times before about my losing and finding of faith. I know every crook and dark corner of that story, every time a person will let their jaw drop or bury their face in their hands. That story is a clearly marked and weathered roadmap to me, speckled with all the landmarks of other people’s reactions to hearing it for the first time.

When the story ended, our conversation fanned out into people.

People who fall beneath this umbrella word “Christian” and how offensively that one word rings out to the world we live in today. Saying, “I am a Christian” is taking a risk. It’s giving you an open door to not like me because of what other people have told you about me. You’ve read of me in the papers. You’ve seen me on the news. It’s relying on what you’ve heard about me to make a judgement that I am girl who thinks the world is full of this “dirty/clean” dichotomy and that I can’t roam with sinners because I am much too holy for that. That’s what the world will tell you about me and I don’t even blame you when you make the judgement because I, myself, am still trying how to not be offended by some Christians.

But the word “Christian” still stops me. Every time I hear the word “Christian,” my mind can’t shake the image of a massive warehouse filled to the ceiling with tiny glass slippers. I picture them everywhere. Absolutely everywhere. Delicate. Beautiful. Chipped. Scarred. And throngs of people coming in and out of that warehouse, trying to wedge glass slippers onto their feet, being so careful to find the one that doesn’t blister them or break when they put it on. And it’s this fragile, scared process of wanting to find the “perfect” fit and the “good” fit and the “beautiful” fit so that they can just be clean & right & dancing with this God who looks more to them like a judge than a father. And all I want to say to that image of perfectly constructed Christianity that breaks open in a world that is messy, messy, messy, is that my gospel is a barefoot one. I don’t wear shoes when it comes to my gospel. And I have no interest, no interest at all, in being perfect or right or blameless. Most days, I just want to feel like I’ve done something right.

I grew up hating the hymns that sat in the pews of my childhood church.

That’s where the hurt started to roar because the lines of those songs always made me feel worthless. Dirty, dirty, dirty. Needing to be clean. Needing to be fit. Needing to be reprimanded. And after years of rejecting those words, I get to tell you with my own lips that I am dirty. I am dirty and it has nothing to do with my worthlessness. I am dirty because I believe in a God who tells me dirt beneath my fingernails, and trudging through the muds of this messy life, is the most beautiful thing I will ever get to do. I believe in a God who tells me getting dirty is my job description. And there is always more work to be done that has nothing to do with condemning and judging and making other people feel worthless for what they walked into this day holding. My God calls me to dirt beneath my fingernails and conversations that crawl into the 3am hour and loving people hard, even when my own heart feels mangled. My God calls me to finger-painting with the messiness of grace and trash-picking in toulle-filled dresses and resting in the assurance that I am a child of God. I am a child of God. I find that title to be earth-shattering as I stand in the thick of a culture that never gives me enough value to hold me past dinnertime.

And despite what you believe, I am not afraid to sit in my corner of the internet and tell you that I think you are a child of God. And please don’t get offended by me because there is nothing offensive about the idea of someone making us perfectly. And there is nothing offensive about believing, if only for a half second, that we were made for victory and better things before we learned to give our little lives away to weaknesses and lies.

I believe in that.

I believe in love. I believe in a religion that never sat pretty in the church the way it raged beautifully when it was out on the sidewalks. In the hands of people who knew how to love on others right. I believe in people who use every shred of their composure to go out of their way to tell someone else how very striking they are. No matter where you’ve been or what you’ve done, someone should have told you that before. And if you’ve never heard that… well. let. me. be. the. first.

I don’t care that I don’t know you. I don’t care that I cannot list off all your bruises and battles like the backs of my own hands. Because if it took me knowing all of that about you then we would never get to the point where I apologize to you…And tell you that I am sorry that others have judged you. Or misread you. Or hurt you. Or screwed you over.

I am sorry for all of that and I beg you accept my apology for all the harm of humanity if it means you’ll think about moving forward today… because you have bigger work to do than feel the bitterness. You have much bigger work to do. That work is so big, so wide, so far, that it laughs at all those weaknesses and offenses that try to hold you back.

To me, it’s not about damnation.

It’s not about the “dirty sinner.” It’s this heartbreaking, simple, and yet stunningly complex story about a girl in a manger who probably looked up to the sky and asked, “Really? This is your plan for a king?” And she birthed a baby beside cow dung for the weary world to call him royalty. And that little boy grows into a man who illustrates to a broken world how to love people and treat grace like manna falling from the sky and have pretty decent friends and never waste your emotions on jealousy and gossip. And then he dies this horrendous death at a young, young age and he comes out of the tomb three days later and basically says to all the people who killed him, “I died for you. Yes, you. I don’t care what you did. I can’t love you any less. You didn’t know how to come to me. You didn’t have a map. You didn’t know the way. And so I solved all the issues– all your faulty GPS excuses–and just came to you.”

I mean, that’s pretty radical, even if you can’t believe in it. I think that even if I didn’t believe in anything, I’d have a really hard time finding anything more beautiful than thinking that the same guy who created beauty out of dirt is the one who gets all choked up crying over all his children and all the empty things we do, thinking as we watches, “I just love you so much that I will endure anything. Anything to prove it. And I’m going to let you make mistake after mistake after mistake and I’m still going to take you back. Even when you leave me, I will wait.” Because that is love eternal– waiting and staying when the rest of the world walks away. Half of the time, I don’t know what I want to believe in. But that? I want to believe in something as beautiful as that always.

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We cannot stay here any longer.

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I hold a dream job that I’ve never told a soul about.

It’s a completely, separate full-time job that (in a pretty & perfect world) would involve just me, a bucket, and Maya Angelou.

I harbor an adoration that is heavy and thick for this woman. She is, quite simply, a soul sister who hasn’t met me yet. But I love her. And I value her. And I would take every turn and twist possible if it meant I could follow her around with an upside down umbrella and a bucket to catch all her words of wisdom in one swift, scoop and keep them for myself.

It could work, really it could. I’d follow her to interviews and press conferences and poetry readings and she’d say to the people at the door, “Oh, her? She’s the one who recycles all my wisdom. Don’t mind her… or her bucket… or her umbrella…”

If this were my job, my most perfect job, then I would have been sitting beside her as her fingers got wrapped in the cords of the telephone as she talked with a reporter at the Daily Beast . I would have been with her instead of sitting here, in the middle of a Starbucks, tracing her wisdom off the screen.

Interviewer: What is something you always carry with you?
Maya: I’m a child of God. I carry that with me.

I stop. I pause. I put the bucket down. I search my pockets. I wonder, when did I stop carrying that? When did I forget that I was a child of God? And when did I forget to remember to tell you that, too? That you, yes, you are a child of God. And that makes you more special than any amount of syllables I could think to place beside your name.

I’m sitting here in the middle of a Starbucks and I am crying. I am vividly crying and I won’t apologize to anyone who wants me to clean up my tears with a napkin and a latte. I don’t really care if I ugly cry all over their Starbucks experience. Welcome to the real world, babycakes!  Youz about to get some titanical tears with your grande machiblahblahblah.

Yes, I’m crying. Right now. Writing to you weeping. Because maybe I’ve wronged you… I’ve wronged you when I didn’t tell you the truth. When I didn’t use every ounce of my energy and my syllables to tell you that you’ve never needed to match someone’s standards. I’ve wronged you when I thought you didn’t need that message more than anything else in the world… more than business advice or organizational skills. You’ve just needed to know what a worthy, worthy thing you are, no matter how ugly this world gets.

And regardless of if you believe it or not, I. Think. You’re. Freaking. Perfect.

Quite simply: I think you put the dang stars to shame. And you give the oceans a ripple & a wave for their money. And you need not change a stitch of you because I have always, always, always loved you this way.

And you think a stranger can’t love you? Baby, I can cry for you. And I can decide not sleep at night because of you. Because all I’ve ever needed to say, over & over & over again, is that I wish you knew how very lovely you are. It’ll break my heart the longer I go without telling you that. I wish you knew how very lovely you are.

And despite what you believe, I am not afraid to sit in my corner of the internet and tell you that I think you are a child of God. And please don’t get offended by me because there is nothing offensive about the idea of someone making us perfectly. And there is nothing offensive about the idea of someone stitching up the skyline for us. And there is nothing offensive about believing, if only for a half second, that we were made for victory and better things before we learned to give our little lives away to weaknesses and lies.

I believe in that.

I believe in love. I believe in a religion that never sat pretty in the church the way it raged beautifully when it was out on the sidewalks. In the hands of people who knew how to love on others right. I believe in people who use every shred of their composure to go out of their way to tell someone else how very wonderful they are. No matter where you’ve been or what you’ve done, someone should have told you that before. And if you’ve never heard that… well. let. me. be. the. first.

I don’t care that I don’t know you. I don’t care that I cannot list off all your bruises and battles like the backs of my own hands. Because if it took me knowing all of that about you then we would never get to the point where I apologize to you…

And say that I am sorry that others have judged you.

Or misread you. Or hurt you. Or screwed you over.

I am sorry for all of that and I beg you accept my apology for all the harm of humanity if it means you’ll think about moving forward today… because you have bigger work to do than feel the bitterness. You have much bigger work to do. That work is so big, so wide, so far, that it laughs at all those weaknesses that tried to hold you back.

We cannot stay here any longer.

Do you hear me? Do you hear me? We cannot sit here and wait for the hurt to pass, we must get stronger. It’s our only hope. We cannot sit here and wait to love ourselves a little more, or find worthiness in the mirror tonight. There is work to be done, there is work to be done.

We will know all those other things in time. But our lives are short & our time is fleeting & our limbs were made for a love that howls at the moon. So are you ready to go? Are you ready to go?

Take my hand. Don’t even turn your head to look back. We’re gonna try forward and I promise, I promise, you’ll weep for joy when you find it fits you like an old lover’s sweatshirt in the night winds of April. You were made for more than this. You were made to carry bigger things than your victim stories. Say it as we go, say it as we go.

You, my love, are a child of God. & you’ve always been perfect to me.

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This ain’t no pretty Christian story.

I grew up finding delicacy in feeding troughs.

In stories where wise men lined up perfectly in a row and they didn’t emerge until “We Three Kings” began with the drums. Where bed sheets upon the heads of hungry children itching for candy canes. And Jesus, he was plastic. Pearly, perfect plastic.

My Christmas story was rigid. Scripted. Leaving no air for error. My Christmas story was Act 1 meets Act 2, communion, go home, open presents, and forget there ever was a crying soul in a manger that night.

Growing up and into a classical Christmas story that has been tied with the twine of “Christianity,” the tender cracks and imperfections exposed themselves as I got up closer. As I dug in deeper. As I questioned God and His realness. As I wondered, why would you ever come to save us in this way?

Mary, she was a judged woman. And Joseph was a proud man, ready to abandon his fiancee for her crime of infidelity. The feeding trough was filthy, a lowly space for animals to drop their waste and heavy bodies. The baby, he was screaming. The night was cold. And the two must have wondered, as they shivered and prayed and waited on their savior, where is the miracle in all of this?

 

A messy, little story with no edits made along the way.

Not the kind of thing fit to be tied pretty and bound into story books for the eyes of sleepless children.  But isn’t that much of life? Isn’t much of this whole me-standing-beside-you thing  just a bunch of clutter and chaos and the coming of great light? Hope. A finally silent night after endless hours of hot tears pouring through.

And then a miracle–in a broken, tired, heaving world–a miracle. A baby and the birth of God’s most beautiful characteristic yet: His ache to save us. To take heavy loads off from our shoulders. To deliver us. To give us a kingdom in a poverty-stricken existence. To say unto us, with His birth into flesh, “Hey, you messed up yesterday. And you, yea, you’ll mess it up tomorrow. But I kind of, sort of, absolutely love you with every ounce of my being.  And nothing you ever do, bad or good, could change that. And I needed a way to prove this to you. So I sent something to you, a gift of sorts, to take away your blame. And your guilt. And your shame. And your anxiety. And your suffering.

So would you take it? Would you take the gift from me?”

I feel sort of silly (I can admit that best) telling people that I think my God came into the world through a 14-year-old virgin, and kings bowed down to him, and He learned the skins of poverty, and he preached but never lavished in the riches of kings, and he died in the most embarrassing of ways. At the age of 33. With folks spitting upon Him. And he, crying. Crying all the while.

What kind of God is that? A lowly, pathetic attempt of a God? Or is it a God that knew, before the whole story even found beginning in a manger, that the only way to bring deliverance to a hungry, hungry people was to deliver himself out into a world in the fleshiest, messiest, most imperfect of manners. No royalty, just poverty. And the whole thing upside down. And that it would take pain, and atrocity, and little to no resolve while treading on this broken earth, to bring a love to us so great that it never learned no limits. Never needed training wheels. Came real & raw & bulging just to envelope a broken thing like me. Maybe that is the act of a God who never sought to prove his ranking, his status, or his capability. Just his love. Just His Love.

 

This ain’t no pretty Christian story.

Not prim. Not pixy. Not perfect.

Not the manger. Nor the virgin. Not the myrrh.

Not made for the ears of Christians alone. Not merely for the ones used to bending their knees and bowing their heads.

This is a story for anyone, and any heart, who has ever needed a savior. Someone to swoop in and convince you with a confidence that you are not alone and that just. you. wait, because even through the unfavorable odds– a virgin, a bitter fiance, no shelter, no crib–the miracle arrives. And the music sweeps in. And the fog of the night clears. And a star shines so bright that it hypnotizes men to leave their fields & flock to follow.

No, this ain’t story for weak hearts and Christian knees.

This is a story, a Christmas story, for any soul that ever needed to know that God can make really beautiful things out of messes. And that He remembered us enough to come down and prove it so.

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And he’s been waiting on my return to load the shingles with icing and guard the doors with candy canes.

It takes a thick stew of Guts & Grace to describe the way my footsteps took to falling as I walked away from God.

As I slammed the door. As I crumbled & crawled & kept my head down so that He would not see me go. Mumbled words of hesitation beneath my breath, “Please don’t follow. Just let me go.”

It’s a dance we’ve done for ages and He knows my footwork well. Knows that I bruise so easy. Knows that I frustrate when I cannot see His plans & all the things He has for me.

And if you ask me one question about this God & I, I will tell you true: God has always had to pour out big ol’ carafes of assurance out upon me. Assurance that I am His. That I am loved. That I am needed. Of all things, I have doubted these the most–that He would create me with purpose. That He could love me vastly, openly, always. Always. Always.

 

We construct God out of the things we know to be true of humans.

So He becomes a conditional lover. He becomes a gossip among angels. He strikes tallies against us on chalkboard in the sky. He rips the winged petals of daisies off, “I love you, I LOVE YOU NOT…”

We dumb Him down. We dress Him in doubt. We cloak Godly shoulders with an accent of judgment and we depict an Angry Being perched in the clouds, throwing down thunderbolts and clomping all over the bar scene yelling, “SINNNNERRRRSSSSSSS.”

He’s the dude that ruins the party. He thinks less of us already. He holds his measuring stick high to our chins and whispers, “Just try, if you want. You’ve already fallen from grace in my eyes.”

He is the wrath of Leviticus. And some angry Triton of a merman that commands floods to the nations. And He points fingers & names names. And we throw up hands & curl in corners & fold head in hands because this God never fit us. & this God failed the already failed ones.

 

Hitchhiking. That’s what we do.

We pack up and flee away from truth. Away from light. And we say ourselves to be “searching.” To be figuring things out. To be in a quiet state of limbo where we ask Big Questions as we seek a more peaceful, more easygoing God. One who fits in our back pockets. And is always singing. And has no real power because surely we feel the need to govern all of that. We’ve given up that control before and we don’t plan to do it again. For we steer better. We own our dreams better. We are better keepers of the emptiness. We have known this emptiness within us all the days of our lives and we’d rather be the keepers. The keepers & the key keepers.

And as I guard the emptiness, a verse unravels the edges of me. Like fray sunk deep in the blue of my jeans. “Be still. Be still. Be still. And know that I am God.”

A verse so overdone. A verse gone word vomit to the Christian soul. A verse that has brought millions of dollars into the coffee cup & bookmark industry. A verse that never stilled me to be still until now. & and I lift up my hands and shoot back, “You got anything better God? Anything better than that?”

My God, he speaks like licorice. Like gumdrops. Like adornments to a house He built me on yesterday. & He has been waiting on my return to Him to load the shingles with icing & guard the doors with candy canes:

“Be still. Don’t move. Stay quiet. Lay like the dead ones.  Let go, let go, let go. Of your worry. Your hesitation. Your little thoughts of me. Your desperation. The tears you clung to yesterday. Your loathing in the little mirror. Put them down. Walk away. Calm your spirit.

And know that I am God. And that you’ve gotten me all wrong. And you’ve listened to too many. And you’ve judged me & labeled me & sized up too small. And all of it is fine because I love you tenfold to the love I gave you yesterday.

But know me… Not what your brother said of me. Not what your mama quoted. But of what you learn and find of me when you travel back to the place we used to stand. I’ll meet you there. I never left. With your hands in your pockets and your feet fidgeting, I’ll tell you what I’ve told you since the moment I claimed you as my own. I love you. I love you. And it has always been my plan, for all the days of your intricate little life, to get you to believe me. Believe me, and nothing else.”

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HolderOfYourHand@gmail.com

To: Holderofyourhand@gmail.com

From: Hannah.Brencher@gmail.com

Subject:

Message:

“I will make it through this… even it kills me.  Just hold me close. Please.”

Receipt: Message Sent.  January 25, 2011. 11:10am.

 

This single sentence, this single email, is all the proof I’ve ever needed to know that Depression has gnashing teeth.

That it sits on the lungs. That it sucks out the life. That it pales the face. That it creates prisoners.

The email was sent at 11:10am. Square in the hollow of January. A time when the tree branches cry for clothing on their skinny limbs and the snow on the New York City sidewalks browns five minutes after the falling.

I wonder where I was sitting. What shoes were on my feet. The moments that mounted before I tapped this email. If a peace flooded me after.  Either way, I shoved the message into an email and sent it off. And then I waited for the response.

God giggled over my last blog post.

I don’t exact know what a “God giggle” sounds like but I definitely wasted the last 15 minutes trying to figure it out. We now have three options: One, two or three. Kindly review and post your votes in the comment section below.  (I left the third one because I didn’t want to X out the fact that God might have a French accent.)

Anyway, like a voracious school child with an appetite for fruit snacks, he giggled over this truth: His fingerprints were all over that blog post. All. Over. It. Like a bad 48 Hours mystery case where one hour in you can say, without blinking, “DUDE. IS. A. MURDERER.”

Here’s the secret you never knew:  When I started blogging in this space three years ago, I made it clear that I wouldn’t be talking about God. If people wanted to find God in my words then good for them. If they wanted to assume that I believed in something bigger than my body then good for them. But my words would never leak of a Father. My tales would never tromp around in Godly Rain Boots. We just were not going to tread through that mess.

“Well, do you ever talk about God on your blog?” I remember my mother asking me one day.

Cue Rage Cage Daughter Reaction. (Simply because my mother has printed out every single blog post since day one so she clearly knew already that I was not writing about God.)

A) Why would I? B) People are so, so, so, so (so) sick of having religious views shoved down their throats. C) I want people to read me, not snooze over mer. D) HTML bible verses hitched at the footer are just plain tacky and I ain’t no tacky blogger. E) God only moves and shakes in my life some of the time. E +1/2) I only let Him in to some of my life. F)  I only feel his presence some of the time.

There it is. Right there. Letter F. Of course I couldn’t blog about God. It wasn’t that my whole body cringed in the thought of telling people about being washed in the blood (no, parts of me definitely still cringe over that image), it was that I had no actual, tangible, real story to tell anyone about how God was working in my life. I was not letting him work. I was micro-managing the Creator of the Universe. I was taking him out of my back pocket when I needed help. I was reaching for His hand and never His face. I was showing him off like a diamond-studded iPhone case whenever I entered the church setting: “PRAISE THE LORD, I AM FEELING SO HOLY THIS MORNING. Jesus actually washed my hair this morning, it was a truly blessed experience. There are fleck of gold still left in my locks if you want proof.” Epic fail? Seriously though. That was my “God Life.”

So God is probably high-fiving me from his throne right now saying, “Thanks for keeping that awful perception of me off this blog, girl. You Is So Cray.”

God & I were good. As good as that relationship in 6th grade with the boy you met in the online chat room. No strings attached. No baggage. Just banter about Pokemon and meaningless stuff like that. (Was I the only one?)

And then life fell apart.

And I could hold little to nothing together.

And no one– no one, no one, no one– could see how I was crumbling.

It was happening on the inside.

Like chunks falling off pillars in my heart.

On the outside I was a girl with all the stuff it took to make dreams come true in her limbs. I was beautiful. I was new to New York City. I was trotting into the United Nations every morning. I was making friends.

And I was about to play Godzilla to my own life.

 

I think we treat God like he is a freeloader of the All or Nothing mentality.

That we either feel him like a tidal wave. Whooooooshhhhh. Or he doesn’t show up at all. And, if that is the case, I chose the part where he never showed up.

That doesn’t sit pretty in my spirit anymore. It doesn’t sit pretty when I think about the countless people who have walked & ran & slid away from God because they feel like he didn’t show up. That he didn’t hear them.

And so, I solved the issue raging in my soul with a single email.

11:10am. January 25th. 2011. The very day when God struck down Yahoo with his mighty fist and picked a Gmail account instead.

When God feels distant, God gets an email address. Right? Maybe?

Well, it was the only thing I could think to do. I didn’t feel God. His presence wasn’t cloaking me. And I felt like my prayers had grown stale and crusty. That I was saying them into the air with all the Empty already sitting in my voice. And I needed to reach God. I was hungry to reach God. And I was tired, so tired, of everyone saying I was not trying hard enough. How does one not try hard enough? How does one recklessly abandon themselves to the Love of God when they just feel like the man who invented rain dances: he gathered the town, did the jig and went away sulking when the rain never came.

I was done with how the world told me I SHOULD respond to God. I was done with perfect little prayers. I was over, SO OVER, feeling like I could only reach him some of the time. Mainly in the mornings. When I was extra holy. And not sinning.

The email address was available: HolderOfYourHand@gmail.com. The email address that I think God would have chosen all this time. I set the email up and after just 15 minutes I was unloading junk & worry & sadness & fear & desire & hope.

And it was releasing. It was pouring out from me. It was skittering away from my own hands.

Send. Send. Send. Send. Send.

No filter. No fear. No “Am I doing this wrong God?! Am I not getting this whole prayer thing right?!”

I could picture God, slugging a pumpkin spice latte in the rasp of January, checking his new email address. Watching it flood with the petitions of his Little Ones. Taking minimal breaks to watch viral kitties on YouTube. Coming right back to his hub to respond in His own Godly Ways.

And the first time I felt him responding. In the trees around me. In my spirit. In the parts of me that needed miracles like Shaq needed someone to make him bigger shoes all those years.

This whole, long story to say just this:

I want to believe that God meets us wherever we are at. Whatever we are feeling. Whatever pain is edging us out around midnight. I want to believe that he tears up over us, his little kids, trying to shoulder every sorrow the world has ever given us. I want to believe that he loves us so much that syllables won’t stack and sentences won’t string when he goes to verbalize it. I want to believe that I can reach him, at any time, in any situation.

I know that the email address isn’t the crux of God but for a girl so battered by the depression and what the world had told her was “prayer,” it was the starting point.

The hopeful thought that in a world where we can email anyone, find anyone, tag anyone, poke anyone, tweet anyone, reach anyone– we could reach God too.

And he would read us. Digest us. Click us open on his iPhone wherever he was standing.

And that– even before we thought to click send– he was responding. With a love so mammoth. A love so raging that it blows Arial & Georgia & Times New Roman straight out of the font family tree.

Dear Friends-

The email address HolderOfYourHand@gmail.com does, in fact, truly exist. I email God quite frequently through it.

It is open to anyone and everyone who wants to use it. I don’t open emails. I don’t even login into the account anymore. I won’t respond back with God Wisdom (yikes). But it feels pretty radical to feel like you are actually sending prayers somewhere. That they have a destination. So please consider using it. It’s the reason why it still exists.

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You were made for mighty things.

You were made for mighty things.

You.

Yes, you with your fingers curled around the computer mouse. Your sleepy eyes hooked to the glow of the screen.

You, with the tired limbs & the half-faking-it kind of smile that’s stayed on your face since lunchtime. You, who might scroll through your newsfeed one last time tonight before giving it up and going to bed. Trying again for something better in the morning.

You were made for mighty things.

& I cannot go a single step more without you knowing that true. Not a step. Not a hop. Not a shuffle or a sashay more without you knowing that  your bones & every ounce of you exist for a reason much greater than this. Much greater than the fog. Than the pricks. Than the pains. Much greater than this moment that you already feel has closed up & in & all around you.

Darkness, darkness, you’ve felt it creeping in. You’ve wrapped yourself in blankets. Curled up in doubts. Listened to the hollow of the night and wondered what you’re really here for. You’ve started prayers but you don’t know to whom. The Whole of it feels awkward. The God feels distant. You swear He cannot hear you. & even if He can, you’ve been unforgiveable for quite the while.

You’ve wondered if you matter. If this hurt will ever go away. If ever, oh, ever the people would remember you if it came time to wear black tomorrow & bury your body deep in the ground.

Darling, darling, hear me good: The dark has stars that poke through the sky and the light, the light that pours on through, is thicker than you know.

Thick like the wool socks you fold over snow boots. Thick like the trunk of the tree in the yard in the back where the tire swing used to swoop & swoop– your hands gripping the rope; your laughter floating up to the leaves.

You were made for mighty things.

Though you swear  you don’t know the starting point just yet. You feel swallowed in just the thought of beginning.

Of trying. Of wandering out beyond the lines of the Things You’ve Known. The Things You’ve Known that you know have become the Things You Know Don’t Fit You Anymore & Don’t Fill You Any Longer & Don’t Quite Play Music Like the Days of the Jewelry Box No More, No More.  

You feel swallowed, so swallowed, just by finding the shred or the starting line or the first little note in the symphony entitled, “How to tell anyone, just anyone at all, that you want to have meant something at the end of all this.” That you’ve wanted to be infinite for pockets of time. That you’ve wondered if there might still be time for you to step out and be something mighty in this world– you’ve done your wrong. You’ve hurt the others. You’ve thought out loud the lie you thought was always true: “I won’t be used for anything good, anything mighty, in the big ol’ world. Maybe her and maybe him but not me. Not me.”

There’s a whisper in the folds tonight,”You were made for mighty things.”

& so it is time to start. Not time to argue.  Not time to groan or doubt or fear. Not time to make excuses. Not time to shrink away. You say you’ve got tomorrow but don’t you know how fierce and fiesty a thing that Time be?

Time. She spits. She sputters. She flips out her hair and don’t guarantee no one a single thing. Not a measuring cup full. Not a week on the calendar. Nothing, nothing.  She only warns you– with her pointed finger in the air– to take the Today & the Tomorrow if she grants it. Take the Tomorrow if Time gonna bless your knees with it in the morning.

No time to reason. No time to know why. Only Time & the small of her back & the truth that ticks like the clock on the wall: As long as you are standing here, two feet on the ground, you’ve got the graces of a New Beginning in your palms. You can close the doors. You can clean out the closets. You can say goodbye. You can let it go.

You can uncover newness. You can climb a new rope. You can stare up at the sky. You can find that God. You can look in the mirror & you can partner with the one looking back. You can decide that you aren’t a thing with just fingers & toes– flawed & fleshy & unfit for unfolding plans.  But that you are a lighthouse. A lantern. A luminari. A flicker of hope. You are the bright spot in the day of someone else.

You are more powerful than you’ve called yourself to be. You are more worthy than you’ve ever claimed to be. But ain’t no one gonna grant you that if your hands aren’t open and your slate isn’t cleared and you can’t find a way to say– to the moon & the stars & the fireflies in the trees tonight– that you’ve grown tired of your Yesterdays & the smallness of it all &  you’ve decided to shift & shake your Tomorrows for as long as you have them. Shift & shake & give them away to the Someones scattered in the world that were made to see light pouring straight of you. You, yes, you.  

You were made for mighty things.

you make beautiful things, you make beautiful things out the dust. 
you make beautiful things, you make beautiful things out of us.

 

 

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Trust me, trust me, I am the road map much grander than you.

On days when I am planting honesty within my stories, my relationship with God bears resemblance to the late Grocery Store Barbie who tragically lost a limb in the Polly Pocket Battle of ’96.

A real David and Goliath kind of story.

Grocery Store Barbie. A gem all encased in plastic.

The process of freeing her and her shopping cart from the confines of cardboard started out proper and delicate. With Scissors. And a great deal of Patience.

Fast forward five minutes, all visions of lining plastic cans of corn up in neat little rows have catapulted from the window as I am ripping Barbie from the plastic twist tie shackles of her cardboard grocery scene.

FREEE BARBIEEEE, FREEEE HERRRRRR, I’d yell in my perfectly pitched Little Girl Barbarian Voice.

Y’all should know it true– Limbless Barbie was Barbie all the same, especially if I got to play with her quicker.

And though God might not even have legs (though I am certain they would glow ten octaves brighter than Barbie’s) and I highly doubt his feet are welded onto tiptoes, I tend to tote the same kind of reckless, impatient behavior when it comes to the plans He has for me.

Grumbling. Whining. Not fully understanding. Understanding so fully but impatient with the reality that the Man operates on His own watch and we just be blown steady with the wind whenever He chooses. Talking my brains out and curling up into my own resolutions that offer sanity, clarity & a right-now-we’ll-fix-this kind of answer.

God might tell you I have not mastered the whole “Simon Says” thing yet. I know how to play but I often  like its better pretending that Simon never said, “Do this.”

I’d rather He’d beam down a book with golden glinted pages and a road map already intact from his Heavenly Playground. Straight down into the hands of a young woman who believes the world might shake and shatter over something as simple as Hazelnut or Vanilla (or, jeepers, Pumpkin Spice.)

But He knows me better, better enough to know that I’d stop leaning…

Stop choosing to be patient with the slow unravel of His Plan’s if I knew I could just take Him off the shelf from time to time, shake Him like a snow globe to see what beautiful, crumpled magic He can stir up for me, and then put Him back to collect seven more months of dust until my little world falls apart again.

He knows I’ll surely bypass the Little Things to get straight to the Big Things. Steer clear of the hard lessons to propel straight towards the goodness. And then never learn how much it means, or how badly I can want something. So bad that I taste it in my tears when I fall asleep in pillow case puddles one night.

I’d scoff at the baby steps. Scoff at the thought of being helpless at His feet. That’s not of my culture. That’s not something I’ve learned while growing up– to be helpless to someone else while the rest of the world totes championship & victory by the individual’s own strength. My “religion” holds rest in its corners and surrender in its pockets, people don’t take too kindly to that sort of order.

“Little One,” I hear him beckoning on colder days when dew slabs the windowpanes like Nutella on crepe. “Life will lose its worth if you are only ripping to find the answers.

“I know, I know, that waiting for things might make your bones ache and leaving might only leave you wanting to dip your shoes in concrete, but my Much Bigger Plans won’t ever evolve without your patience. Keep stepping, keep stepping forward, even when you cannot see the bigger watercolor. Trust me, trust me, I am the road map much grander than you.”

And it always happens this way. Like I’m serving a God who’s planned it all along. Just when I think I am getting savvy with creating my own lyrics to this song called “Life,” He shifts, shakes, and then throws me off.

Leaving me with no choice.

Leaving me to surrender whatever I thought I wanted and needed for myself.

Leaving me to pick my scissors back up and begin anew– with patience this time.

Leaving me in awe, over and over again, by the fact that the lyrics to this song and the plans for my life are never to my own credit, rather words I find I know by heart after a Someone sang them into me a long, long time ago.

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I wish you could have been there. In the Chelsea church with me.

I took God back through a spoken word poem.

I’m sure I never told you that. It’s been 16 months since we last spoke (19, if I’m really counting) and I thought you should know that I took Him back. And I’ve learned to capitalize all the He’s & Him’s that hold His name because He’s been good to me in a way you never knew how to be.  But I don’t blame you for that. We’re all broken, so I don’t blame you.

But I wish you had been there. Beside me on the balcony as a girl down below poured Perfect Pearled Prophesy out from her lips, like no Poetry I’d ever heard. Never, never, never, did I know things with more Sweet & Tang than Sunny D could exist on the lips of people so human. And I thought, that’s God. He’s shining in her.

And I lifted my arms up to the rafters as I imagined the nightlife creeping up with laughter outside the walls of my church tucked close to the bedside of Chelsea Market.

And I took Him back.

Like the man who stands outside the car whose tires have just lent themselves to screeching, vowing that he won’t walk away til’ morning. Not til’ she rolls down her window & lets him in. I took Him back in that way.

The girl spoke of a car crash. Not a literal one. But the one in her soul that resembled the Crashes where the caution tapes been drawn and the mother has had Five Minutes of Holding by the stranger wearing the blue police uniform who questions God too. She spoke it and called it by name, this place in her soul: Ugly. Hurt. Crushed. Untouched. Tainted. Deceived. Messy.

And I thought, I know that place. The places we could never talk about together cause you always called it moving on and I stayed back wondering if I could handle to gather more pieces.

The dark places. That places that never gets the flashlights or the lanterns or the Christmas bulbs. No, we just keep on trudging to find other pockets of happiness, forgetting we were battered. Bruised & Broken. Wronged.

And sitting on your bed, with a barrier of experience so thick between us, you asked if I would ever go back. To God. To prayers before bed. To Bible in the morning.

“Probably not… I don’t know… I’m just so hurt…”

One-syllable kind of words was all the conversation could hold– breaking like that game we barely ever played because there was so much damn assembly required. With the penguins. And the tissues. And the marbles. And the water. Don’t Break the Ice, wasn’t that the name?

And we took to separate corners of the earth when I really should have told you I was more hurt than I had words for… and I still needed a Savior more than ever before. And it would never be you. I’m so sorry dear, it would never be you.

I wish I could have found the words to tell you then that I still believed in God. & prayers. & healing. Even when Religion had Indian-burned my wrists like fifth graders on the bus rides to school. When Religion left me thinking maybe I would never go back there… Bury it in the dirt and move forward, for its Bibles & Condemning & Preaching had hurt me too badly.

I wish you could have been there. In the Chelsea church with me.

Like a 5-year-old waiting in the wings for her father to stroll down the aisle of her ballet recital, I wish you could have been there. To see me take Him back. How easily it happened. How effortless. How much grace poured in to water the limbs of a girl who had become like a Tin Man. Needing a wizard. Needing a new heart.

Maybe then we wouldn’t have ended up on bar stools.  Dry liquor between us as you told me you decided that you didn’t believe anymore. In someone who could clear away the crash. In an Abba within a world that failed us yesterday. That God was now sitting in an abandoned waiting room, locked up inside you, beside a woman who collects baby teeth at night and an obese man who devour cookies before filling up the bottoms of our evergreens with wrapping paper.

I didn’t have the courage then to tell you I’d never lost the faith.

I didn’t have the courage to share with you a Gospel that felt so foreign and strange on my hands.

I didn’t have the words yet to tell you that no Tomorrow would ever hold a day when I didn’t need a savior. A higher power. A God who caught my every tear in big ol’ basins made on the angels’ pottery wheels.

Because if I don’t have that, then what? Then what? Then what?

I’m sorry I never told you… about the spoken word poem. About the surrender. About the God who showed up in the rafters to handle my junk like fine china.

I’m leaving these words here.

And if you still read me, like the days when you promised you always would, then maybe we’ll talk again soon.

Maybe you’ll find my number.

Maybe you’ll dial.

 & ask me why I believe in Him now more than ever.

I’ll answer.

 

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The parts & particles of Me made to believe in someone like You.

I chose to believe in God the night my best friend and I fell out of Love’s gloved hand at the very same time.

We ran off to her dance studio with candles & love notes & tissues in tow, turned off all the nights, and just laid in the center of the floor for a very long time.

I remember a lot of silence. The kind of silence that hung her pain on coat hangers in the hallway.

And then the sniffles.

The occasional reading of an old love note or two.

The “Why is it like this?” and other questions we couldn’t answer.

And hot tears.

Hot tears that made no noise but still took every bone inside of you not to plug your ears and belt out Mariah Carey just to make it all feel more normal. Not so crazy. Not so miserable.

So this was it… the ending to a dizzying several years packed crater-full with First Kisses & sweaty palms at homecoming dances. Nights of no sleep, wrapped tight in the squiggles of telephone cords during the times when phones still stayed attached to the wall. Secrets sneaking into the crooks of 1:02am. Giggles piggy backing the 3am hour. The first I. Love. You—said in a hurry—until you realized you could say it again & again & again. Without ever stopping.  No one would make you stop.

I chose to believe in God that night as our hearts sizzled side by side like bacon strips basking in the heat of the pan. Cracking in a way that made you say, “I won’t have words for this thing for a very long time.” Your daddy couldn’t prep you for it. It carried no resemblance to the ice cream falling off the cone.

And she and I– we lay there– Crying. & Unashamed. Because it hurt. & when you were a little girl you let the tears roll in when something hurt you. & we prayed to be little girls once again when all there was to cripple your spirit was Sticks & Stones & Words, but never boys with sweatshirts cloaked in cologne as they pulled you in by the waist before geography class.

I chose to believe in God that night even though just days before I had told my mama I thought maybe we were all just particles. Particles without purpose. Formulated from the sea the way the science books illustrate. Evolution without a God. Bodies just crashing into one another with no real beginning or end. And we’d go to the ground without angels.

She ignored me. Ignored me as if to say, just wait… just wait for the day when you are sitting Indian-style on the floor of a Brooklyn apartment, tasting the sweet butter stirred deep in the take out clam chowder while she sits in the chair before you and reads poetry off pages because it is the only way she knows to cry out to you. You’ll feel God and the might of His peppermint breath as it blows in the sacred pockets of that time when you are sharing pain like playing cards with someone who just wants to disappear for a while.

Just wait to realize that God is everywhere in those Kinds of Moments that carry no nobility or pay stub for your listening, where you don’t have the right words and your arms are so tired. And your heart is chipped. And the Pain has Pummeled the Parts & Particles of You.

Just wait for when the world gets Too Heavy and your heart gets Too Broken and you’ve got to believe in something above roofs & ceilings. Skylights & Billboards. Something more than particles rising up from the foam of the sea.

Particles. They ain’t the kind to get up in the morning to the sound of church bells & sip mimosas & share croissants with strangers as some kind of strange communion for the humanity we lost in our iPhones.

Particles. They’re not the type to still believe in music even when the tuba player has headed off for the circus and the pianist ran off with the drummer.

Particles.  They wouldn’t have reason to yearn to be a Part of this. To give Parts of themselves. To never want to be Apart. But to want to do their Part. And Sometimes on Some Days, still, fall Apart on dance room floors with broken hearts strewn beside old love notes and tissues, crying upward to a God who never believed in Ceilings or Skylights or Limits anyway.

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