True Intimacy

True Intimacy

"Human relationships easily become possessive. Our hearts so much desire to be loved that we are inclined to cling to the person who offers us love, affection, friendship, care, or support. Once we have seen or felt a hint of love, we want more of it. That explains why lovers so often bicker with each other. Lovers' quarrels are quarrels between people who want more of each other than they are able or willing to give.

It is very hard for love not to become possessive because our hearts look for perfect love and no human being is capable of that. Only God can offer perfect love. Therefore, the art of loving includes the art of giving one another space. When we invade one another's space and do not allow the other to be his or her own free person, we cause great suffering in our relationships. But when we give another space to move and share our gifts, true intimacy becomes possible."

Henri Nouwen is quite smart; I know in prior neediness, of loneliness, I have broken the good advice above. The codependency quotient kicks in, and, suddenly, a person (me) feels rejected and unfulfilled. Thankfully, God realizes our longings can be misplaced, misappropriated; our love can be misguided. I believe that He is exceptional at addressing this in us, if we listen. I have been tangled before in the above; I've been the child minus necessary affection which caused seeking. However, God is patient and helps and grows us. For myself, I am so very grateful. I have definitely needed His gentle arms teaching me about real love.

Barbed wire and safe pasture

I remember the problem of barbed wire when I was young. To get to the other side, you could crawl under, but your shirt might be snagged and you would be caught face down in the dirt. Or, you could find a post and climb ladder-like on the wire; however, at times, your inner thigh or the shorts could be punctured. Ouch. Or, you could separate two strands of wire by holding the top wire up, while you found room to swing your legs over and through. In such a precarious position, you could get the barbs either on the top or the bottom. Double ouch. Such a pain, the barbed wire fence.

My siblings and I usually used a different method of crossing; while they were long and lean, they tended to use the ladder pole method. Since I was short and small, I would typically crawl under. However, every so often we would try the different methods, sometimes surving and sometimes not. 

At the NILD conference, I had to cross a barbed wire fence. Small groups of people from the same school, or those who had gone through a training level together, clustered together. A common understanding permeated the ranks that all children deserve a Christian education and that Christian education was the one that needed to adjust to accomodate all types of learners. I was an outsider from a foreign land.  I had to shake off old shyness and join their ranks in order to learn.

At times, it worked. Two Pennsylvania ladies sat in the same spot, and one was pleasant enough to answer my basic questions. Other times, the ladies I sat by were turned toward one another, and I would smile as they glanced my way and away. Sometimes, just walking through the hallway where the break was happening, made me feel like I wanted to hurdle the fence and run, back to the solitude in a proverbial covered woods.

During one lunch, I asked God to direct my table selection in order to provide someone to help give me more guidance. I sat down, and the woman next to me happened to work for a college; she didn't have training either; we really couldn't provide much to one another except social support.  However, the woman on the other side started talking to me, and I slid under unscathed to the other side. She was trained, older, went later to become a School Psychologist (one of the options I'm thinking about), and has a son with Asperger's. As she talked, I smiled. God is good.

God allowed us some more time throughout the conference; she was even on my very early shuttle van to the airport. We were able to eat breakfast together and chat more. I have her e-mail and contact information; she acted as a willing mentor to me and is willing to do so in the future.

At times, when you cross under a fence, you are escaping either a mad bull, or a frightening neighbor owner, or a sense of being lost after having wandered too far. By going through the barbed wire during these meetings, I felt God reiterating this message to me again:  Trust in the Lord and do good; dwell in the land and enjoy safe pasture. Take delight in the Lord, and he will give you the desires of your heart. Psalms 37:3-4. I pray that we can all dwell in His safe pasture and cross over, through, or under the barbed wire which wishes to keep us confined. Amen.

Loving how we all learn

About six months ago, I became angry and grieved. Full of sorrow and spit. Some fist shakes. Some trail stomps. And, then God posted on my FB page, "Be the change you want to see." Or, was that Ghandi or Einstein? Hmmmm . . . No, it was God because He was the one I was interrogating: "Why? Why do your people act like this? Why can't my son take a single test home to help him stay at this Christian school? Why is the administrator's hand moving determinedly against accommodations of any kind? Why does she state so emphatically? Why are some children who need much turned away in favor of those who have much? Why isn't Jesus's style of ministry copied? And, how can You let all this happen to hurt children who need help so desperately? You. You. You." Immature stomp and spit and maybe a doorslam.

God sighed and said, "Do you really think this reflects my heart? Have you read the Bible lately?'

And, everywhere I turned I saw verses where He admonishes us to help those in need. I still couldn't reconcile the discrepancy, though, at the school where I taught. They said that resources couldn't be afforded. They said that the emphasis is on college prep. They said that everyone should be taught to the same standard like in this cartoon below:

Sucks to be the goldfish.

And, God delighting in my churning, challenged me to be the change I wish to see. Rather, He kind of demanded it, and "obedience" to what He wanted to work through me became my word. I researched. I threw out some notes to people. I caught others in the hallway. I promoted my fuzzy idea of my half-baked understanding of His steelcut vision. I met with some silence but with lots of encouragment. However, none of that people approval stuff mattered because God asked me to do something about it.

Okay, I got distracted by Facebook, blogging, mandolin playing, coffee with friends, the state of my hair, Words with Friends, career tracking, etc., but I knew that within me, I had to obey even though I dallied fearfully and carelessly at times.

During a part of my research, I came across an organization called the National Institute of Learning Development which trains educational therapists to help kids with learning disabilities in Christian schools. There were plenty of Christian schools who saw Jesus' heart as a model. I cried and rejoiced for their existence. And, I kept revisiting the NILD website because, because, because . . .  I was intrigued. As I contemplated what career tracks I wanted to lay down for the future, I kept thinking of God's heart and desire for me. Could it include what this organization had to offer? Something that was also close to my heart?

In the meantime, I applied for a counseling graduate program. However, I kept visiting the NILD site and finally decided, with the blessings of husband, to attend their conference in Orlando just to check them out. An expensive venture. We usually don't do things which are expensive without solid reason, but he agreed, and I didn't balk at the money requested.

I went. I was the lone Missourian. I found nice women from Pennsylvania, Arkansas, and Oregon, in particular. A woman from Boston gave me a compassionate, side bear hug which almost started my rotator cuff injury up again.

And, I found my tribe (as son calls it). When I heard presenters quoting Bible verses which talked about supporting the weak, helping the needy, unfolding the gifts of each child, requiring Christ's true heart in all that we do, I teared up. The conference was about so much more than learned principles applied to educational therapy. I had carried weight for so long about educational options, opportunities, misfires, deadends, for my son. I had the same steelcut conviction that these people had about making Christian education available to all types of learners. Ah and oh.

All through the week and after the sessions, I would go back to my hotel room and cry  to release all that had built up in me from hearing such good news, concern, love, and action. It's a good thing I didn't have a roommate.

The week was incredible, and I will blog more about it later. But, God was there in particular people I met as well as in his heavy Spirit, prompting me to enter into His waters of loving mission.

Jump, splash, coral reef.

Amen. Selah for all.

Waking

It's morning
The sound of the space heater reduces rough edges.
The light of the monitor brazenly boasts.
My dream of a swamp, a porcupine, and a foot cramp
fades. Our cat rolls upon her broad back.

The pressures
of timewithGod beckon; the urgency of
allteacherwork knocks.

Yet here is space; a blank slate for letters
an acknowledgement of will, life,
and a brief path which winds.

I loiter in the morning to stare sleepily
at the birds flying across the lake, of
which I just did mentally create,
to stretch and to stumble back
to being. I accept the cold air
hitting my face and the coffee
mug granted. God will wait.

Life must slowly accept the actuality
of the wake.

Ink wound irritants

Well, the happy people are going to church, and I'm Left Behind.

Caught in one of those moods

Which I hope Jesus doesn't catch me in on the Last Day.

A mood where the work piles,

The pressures of doing cancel being,

The people waiting matter more than the person plodding.

I have papers surrounding me

to grade with marks which I don't feel like marking.

I have books opened as if they're laying topless on a  Mexican beach

demanding stare, sunscreen, self-reflection (and incrimination).

I have cats meowing or pawing the door when they want service,

Needing me, needling me, with inscrutable eyes, claws, incisors:

Yesterday's adorable companions, today's taxi drivers.

Today, I think of all the cost of no pay back,

The long hours; the unfair advantage math instructors have

when I cut famous poetry lines to tape onto cards for four hours.

Gloomy words even  like "I heard a fly buzz when I died" or

"About suffering they were never wrong." Stab, slice,

and I'm responsible for being the guide into a field of flowers?

I think I should give.

Crawl back into bed.

Go eat a pile of chocolate cake.

I hope those church folk are singing pretty while I am

burning at the stake for poetry and felinity and

sacrificial lambnity.

As Mark Strand wrote, "Ink runs from the corners

of my mouth" and I agree.

Death such, for an English teacher,  would indeed be

an expected kind of bleed.

[I feel better now. Thank you for hearing violins and cats screeching when kicked.]

Slope lessons

And, what a gift is granted when you can laugh with your students even when you teach them that life isn't fair; nature doesn't care; God only intervenes at will (and their opposites).

But, there is a joy when we hit the slopes. When we release and fly toward God, when we navigate over or through the moguls, when we know life is coming. When in the classroom, we consider the hard with the solution --  the difficult with the sublime; the speed with the arrival.

However, let's be honest. My students are worried about life ahead. They don't necessarily fly with joy and skim happily away. It's serious business. Worry is real. Life and family strains are happening. Others are pulling them away from perceived truth. Other things are beckoning them to bound gratefully away from God and his pressures in cahorts with parents.  Life is happening to them. They need to find their own identities; their own faith; their own path wrought by problems, pleas, responses.

But, for the minute, today, they were my slope companions. And, seriousness and silliness knew no distinction. I felt like a conductor during a mountain festival; a gate releaser; a clown in the trees; a warm cup of cocoa at the end of a bitter wind.

Teaching can be invigorating. Smiles, laughs, and deep ponderings from my students can be the powder which softens any falls and makes a blissful spray along the way.

Selah. Amen. Merci. Word. Life. Graciousness divine.

Dave Ramsey, one

My husband and I went to Dave Ramsey's Financial Peace University at our church last night. We couldn't find a heckling place in the rear so we sat on the front row. I watched my husband as he doubted some of the financial information given. I wanted to be an admirable, knowledgeable rebel like him; however, my ignorance kept me silent. We weren't sure why we were there since my husband is trained in sound financial principles and practices them. He said that the information would be so basic for him that it would be like teaching me, an English teacher, how to spell cat. During Ramsey's videotaped presentation, though, we caught each other laughing at his jokes and agreeing to his general principles. When Ramsey said that most families don't talk about money, we looked at each other and snickered -- my husband's family would tell you how much their spit cost if they could put a price tag on it. Then, they would only spit half as much to save a dime or two. Money is a focus and a fixation. It's a hobby. All chat and all deep conversations trickle back to the comforting sounds of cha-ching.

We split up into small groups, and like an addiction meeting, we said our names and why we were there. I said I was an ignorant English major. My husband said he was there to support me and to represent the Evil Industry (banking). That latter admittance commanded respect and people began asking questions of him. Our group leader, a longtime friend, asked him questions too. He even got to use his cute little sense of humor on the group.

Next week, I can't attend since I will be at a conference. But, my husband said that he thinks he will attend without me afterall despite an earlier declaration to stay home.

:)

20 Year Marriage

I know the above photos aren't the typical anniversary shots. But, they are often the typical marriage photos. We are separated looking off into the distance here, wondering how to relate to one another, wondering if we've met each other's expectations, wondering how we're going to spend the next 20 years together. And, these thoughts occurred even in a tropical paradise where we intentionally went for love.

And, we did love, even during the times of the above questions. When a couple drops all their daily duties with kids, work, routine, and they begin to spend down time together; they eat meals together which they don't in the day to day; they listen and attempt to talk to one another; they try to "be" with one another, confusion and despair happens alongside the celebratory, romantic, and friendship moments.

We had both. We had to talk to clear away the confusion and despair. We had to reaffirm our love and commitment to one another. We had to believe individually that we are capable of such love (with God's help). We had to re-establish and laugh. We had to toast each other in complete gratitude for accepting warts and all. We had to walk away hand in hand again ready for the years ahead.

I'm extremely grateful for such a man and friend in my life. And, here, after 20 years together, is the typical anniversary photo -- a couple connected by grace, choice, fight, and commitment.

Giving dignity to those who suffer

Prompted by a student of mine, I have been thinking about struggle. I have often wondered about the fact that struggle seems to typlify some lives more than others. To try to make sense of struggle, some people universalize it: "We all struggle and suffer." Who can argue with a statement like that? It's true that we do. However, I often become bothered by such a naive statement of reduction. I believe I can quantify and qualify struggle better since I am a parent of a child who has struggled with autism/schizophrenia/adhd, and the combination thereof which has impacted his daily life. However, I don't wish to reduce the suffering of others, yet I see two big differences to consider when normalizing some kinds of struggles.

1) Some struggles involve a chronic painful nature. They are not episodes or stages, no matter the intensity of these. This struggle has been there from the beginning or for a long time, both in the past, the present, and the future.

2) Some struggles have an all-encompassing nature. This kind of struggle involves multiple outcomes such as the inability to have relationships; to hold a job; to go to college; to be safe in a school environment; the inability to get out of a bed;  out of a chair;  to speak to others; to have a stability of health whether physical, mental, or emotional and etcetera. Life itself can be threatened by these struggles which includes many chronic and encompassing barbs.

I'm sure there are more, but these are what I can think of right now.

In thinking about my student who struggles with mental issues, I can see that his fight is fiercer than the normal adolescent, who is also suffering from various things. His fight is both chronic and encompassing for him. To compare many others' struggles with his is like comparing a cancer to a cold. If others did that his mother would say, "They have no idea," and she is right. She knows about the mental institution, the run after the suicidal son in the night, the continous psychiatric visits, the chronic worry, despair, need for full reliance upon help, the courage it requires.

I like the example of Christ who recognized each person's dignity in their struggle. He knew the great fighters during his day:  the woman who touched his robe; the leper banned from community; the mental anguish of the demon-possessed man. He gave them dignity when they were normalized or blamed or shunned. Great sufferers of the Bible are depicted also as heroic in their fight for light. I think that we can learn much from these examples. We don't have to laud or give an award to those who have greater struggles, but we can give them dignity and respect without trying to take that away from them by reducing their struggle through inadequate comparisons.

My friend who recently lost her husband to brain cancer and her home to a fire wrote this morning about her necessity in resting in Christ's arms through her suffering. She also referenced a hope-filled and dignity-providing verse to those who suffer; a verse which gives purpose and hope and comfort to those who go through certain intense fires. She underlined the meaningful part to her. I'm glad this verse shows the understanding vision and care for those who struggle, both normally and greatly. May we believe in it. Amen.

2 Corinthians 1:3-5  ³ all praise to God, the Father of our Lord Jesus Christ. God is our merciful Father and the source of all comfort. ⁴ He comforts us in all our troubles so that we can comfort others. When they are troubled, we will be able to give them the same comfort God has given us. ⁵ For the more we suffer for Christ, the more God will shower us with his comfort through Christ. 

What if I'm the one who is hiding?

"For most of my life I have struggled to find God, to know God, to love God. I have tried hard to follow the guidelines of the spiritual life -- pray always, work for others, read the Scriptures -- and to avoid the many temptations to dissipate myself. I have failed many times but always tried again, even when I was close to despair.

Now I wonder whether I have sufficiently realized that during all this time God has been trying to find me, to know me, and to love me. The question is not 'How am I to find God?' but 'How am I to let myself be found by him?" The question is not 'How am I to know God?' but 'How am I to let myself be loved by God?' God is looking into the distance for me, trying to find me, and longing to bring me home. In all three parables which Jesus tells in response to the question of why he eats with sinners, he puts the emphasis on God's initiative. God is the shepherd who goes looking for his lost sheep. God is the woman who lights a lamp, sweeps out the house, and searches everywhere for her lost coin until she has found it. God is the father who watches and waits for his children, runs out to meet them, embraces them, pleads with them, begs and urges them to come home . . . .

I am beginning now to see how radically the character of my spiritual journey will change when I no longer think of God hiding out and making it as difficult as possible for me to find him, but, instead, as the one who is looking for me while I am doing the hiding. When I look through God's eyes at my lost self and discover God's joy at my coming home, then my life may become less anguished and more trusting" (106-107). Henri Nouwen The Return of the Prodigal Son.

A trail runs through it

We have a trail which runs through our town which connects to a trail which runs through our state. And, although we have no mountains, no ocean, no recreational waterside to speak of, this trail does a body and spirit good. Makes one stay around.

I dropped my son off at indoor soccer yesterday evening and pulled into a nearby trail parking lot. Secured the van, keys, shoestrings, calf muscles by stretching, and began the jog. Invariably, the desire to stop in the first mile hit me. Legs felt heavy; all my weight of the world required a rest. The choice to walk or stop flitted in my mind, landing on a big branch to sing a poignant song. But, the one miler must scare it away, knowing that the two miler will obtain a comfortable pace. The end-runner, the one who makes it to the final finishing place, will be grateful for that one-miler who made a decision to keep going, to keep going, to work the kinks out of the body and mind in order to keep going and succeed.

Finishing the race is biblical. God tells us to finish the race we have started: endurance, perseverance, obedience to the call to begin are valued traits to develop.

I like running because it tests my resolve like that; it's a parallel activity.  I like our trail because of the trees, the rustles in the side brush, the faces of those I pass who are working spiritual and physical matters out. At times there are unexpected surprises -- like a bluebird landing nearby bright in a gray day; like a friend one passes; like a bench which offers a place for prayers or curses; like a sudden hail storm; like memories of talks, walks, runs, perseverance, process.

I don't know where I would be today if there wasn't a trail which runs through our town.

Safe place

I haven't blogged for a while. Life happens; the route becomes circuitous, dangerous. One of my friends had a serious car accident, and I haven't felt like doing the journey with full energy myself while she lies in the hospital bed, suffering. Today, I'll go visit her mother and help her wait out a surgery.

School life has been going well. The students and I share deep thoughts and deep laughs. I'm truly blessed by them, and I know some of them might say the same back. :)

I have been reading snippets from books. Right now, in the process of handing over a book to a struggling former student's mother, I am reading Larry Crabb's The Safest Place on Earth. I want to capture some thought provoking quotes before the book leaves, maybe never to be seen. May it go with seeds full of potential growth.

Memorable quotes about confusion and disappointment (and hope!):

"Confusion isn't always a bad thing. If we're not confused about anything it's likely we're grasping the truth about nothing important" (4).

"Disappointment, too, is inevitable. More than that, it is good. Following Christ must take us through seasons of disappointment because Christianity remakes our dreams before it fulfills them. The process is excruciating. It can include divorce, bankruptcy, accidents, murder, near apostasy -- anything" (5).

"Disappointment, severe enough to be called death, is unavoidable in a true spiritual journey" (5).

"The upside of confusion is openness. Confused people listen better, not always, but more often than people whose minds are made up. Those folks listen only in order to critique, to see if someone else is on the right track, namely theirs. Confused people are more likely to combine kindness with whatever convictions emerge our of their confusion. And, because of their eagerness for meaningful dialogue with honest people, the convictions they develop tend to speak to the realities of life as it really is lived" (5).

"Disappointment has an upside as well. It inspires hope by making hope necessary" (6).

"Soul-crushing struggle supplies the energy that nudges us along in the process of shifting from token hope, the kind that generates pleasant feelings, to the real thing that anchors us through life's storms" (6).

That's all for now. I need to make a homemade card with enthralling pictures of Tom Hardy and Jesus on it for my friend. See below:

Wind

Anxiety can ram into a person mid-waking up, early in the morning. Earlier, then, I prayed with desperation for my son whose anxiety became known to me. I prayed that there is a God who cares, even though I believe. I prayed for supernatural interference of which I'm at times uncertain. I prayed to release the griphold of fear which can make me suffer all day. God and emotional decisions delivered peace, though, and I'm trying not to pick up the strings again of a diving kite in a driving wind.

There's much to do instead:

transition meeting for son at school to arrange

graduate application

classes to plan tomorrow

a blog entry to write for my friend :)

mother's support group dinner this evening

a special needs school plan to write

baking for tomorrow

always e-mails to answer.

But an artist friend came over this morning, and we had a lovely talk at my table. Anxiety can be so dispelled when you have another good place to look and interesting things to think about.

Yet inside, where calm can also be, I'm pleading, "Help!" "Support!" "Lifeboat!" "Please!" And, I'm listening, remembering promises, needing proof, sailing upwards for answers.

The Tree of Life

Yes, like my fellow blogger who sent me a comment yesterday, I too watched The Tree of Life yesterday by coincidence. Above are pictures from the movie. In the first one, Sean Penn, as the older brother whose younger brother died, is remembering life as a child. His memories are impressionistic which is true to how the natural mind works. If I think of my childhood, I see bursts of images held together in small packages, tied together by a ribbon of the mind which groups, recalls, and forgets. Impressions, perceptions, interpretations are also in the swirl making the memory not at all as it was. Repackaged, represented. Meaning floats to the surface like cream in milk.

In the second picture, family tension, the tension of leaving childhood to take on greater responsibility, fulfill greater expectations is portrayed. Often, we begin to despise one of our parents then, especially if, like in the movie, they are demanding. The Sean Penn character (the older brother) remembers clearly the confusion and sadness of this time. Images of his dead younger brother are outlining these remembrances.

Then, in the final shot, after death, the family is reunited on the eternal beach, waiting for one another, or the Savior, to carry them across the tide. They are joyful, yet resolute to the environment, yet so happy to be reunited. Life has moved on to another stage, and they are together immemorially.

The movie was deeply sad to me because, although life is interconnected -- the tree branches out for us all -- grace is there -- the trials of the human were shown. The calling out for proof of His care was sounded; the confusion, the loss, the layer  below the happy --  all lurked. Even the ending was forlorn due to the beach and people walking alone or waiting for their loved ones. After the family reunites, I wondered, "What's next? Do they wander now? What fulfillment do they finally receive for their souls?"

However, the movie is open to interpretation and impressions, and those are mine. I went to bed knowing that I can't think about the film too much; can't let the movie root in me because of the not enough quality to it. I would become depressed. When I think of eternity, I think of the last stage Narnia and a more biblically described place -- where all is warm, goodness inundates, and divine relationship is established. No more floating, wandering, walking as a small person by the side of a gigantic, cold ocean. Love will flourish. Love will dispel. Loved ones will be reunited in the context of light and Love who will embrace and hold forever.

Hands out, for now, loving others and seeking the eternal culmination of that hope and desire. The end does await. I can dare to believe the old texts as I walk in my brief here and now, alongside the ocean, under the tree, beside an old house where once lived those I laughed with and loved.

Trust and gratitude

"Although we are incapable of liberating ourselves from our frozen anger, we can allow ourselves to be found by God and healed by his love through the concrete and daily practice of trust and gratitude" (Henri Nouwen, The Return of the Prodigal Son 84).

Beautiful words a relative I know might scoff at. Yet I think she works on finding positive currents in her life, although healing through and through isn't something she believes in. She's too scarred. Life just hasn't been that easy. She's too angry about circumstances; He really doesn't even seem there much of the time. Some words about God are simply surface beautiful. Like a maple tree emblazoned and then bare.

I validate that way of thinking. But, I would hate to stop there. For example, I have a habit of staring at recipes in my recipe books, wondering if the recipes are possible, visualizing myself purchasing ingredients, imagining that first taste. But, invariably, I decide that the recipe isn't worth much effort; that my boys wouldn't like it; that I can't coordinate the shopping with the making with the time.  My book becomes shelved once again.

However, every so often, I have a breakthrough! The book comes off the shelf, I open it, and I follow the guidance and instruction in order to come up with a dish. Many times, not always, it is tasty and my cooking experience has expanded for good.

I often wonder why, with God, we want to shelf him. Even if we're not desirous of active seeking, or if we become suspicious of beautiful pictures or words, or if there's some ingredient we don't like which the spiritual life calls for, to me, we simply lack courage. There is a necessary courage to trust that what we find will be good, regardless of what others think or experience. There is a courage to practice gratitude in the face of mountains.

May we be brave today. And be open to God's desire for us. If we have a small amount of belief, let us be courageous enough to follow that to the promised feast of healing and life for today.

Selah.

Planking

In "An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge,"a memorable short story from the excellent writer Ambrose Bierce, Peyton Farquhar must stand on a plank with a noose around his neck. When orders are given, the soldier on the other end of the plank will step aside and Mr. Farquhar, the Southern loyalist, will hang for his crime of planning to set this bridge on fire to stop Federal advance.

We read this story in class today. I must admit to a great love for literature and for teaching it, and I love the students and our interactions. So, right now, I feel like a woman on a plank. If I become accepted to the graduate counseling program which I applied to yesterday, I could hang and find myself away from the teaching of wonderful students and literature. However, if I don't apply and pursue a future professional teaching career, I feel on a plank of weariness, low pay, and assault (especially in the public school where behaviors are such a problem).

I need God-guidance. I need to make the right decision. Good night, Mr. Farquhar. May the best person awaken to the right kind of reality.

Inundation

Yesterday, I felt funny about my earlier posting about going to my music lesson. I sometimes get into an ecstatic type of trance about something which simply feels transcendent or like heaven. And, my language goes up, and ridicule is possible, and I myself become a sceptical onlooker to my own communicated experience. When Wordsworth reread his fanciful "Tintern Abbey," he perhaps wanted to chuck it into the fire because of its elevated emotion.

However, as I returned to a book by Barbara Brown Taylor called An Altar in the World, I simply share her belief that we find God, not simply inside a church, a limited square, but everywhere. Many have that belief; stories of it are written all in the Bible. But, often we forget the holiness in moments, in special places, in ordinary paths, wherever we travel. God simple is -- he Inundates -- he Overwhelms -- he Overflows, and we move within as if swimming in an incredible deep.

I just want to sense and see and respond, removing blinders from my eyes which designate, partition, divide. If I believe that God can be only seen and experienced with certain people, in a certain place, or with certain structures in place, than I am lost; my oxygen line cut. I would be swimming, focused on the last exhaled breath which intakes water.  I want to see through my goggles wherever I am and see his Beauty all around, the wondrous variety of fish, the sights which pass my way (even the dangerous ones to avoid). Lord of All, help us not to limit our vision of your grand (and invasive) Inundation.

Amen.

Lost in therapy

In the popular television series Lost, survivors of a plane crash find themselves upon a strange and dangerous island. Beasts of unknown proportion whip through cane and foilage to attack suddenly. A group of wild humans called the Others desire to war and capture the survivors for unknown purposes. Enemies of spirit, soul, and flesh seem to want to put an end to those who accidentally abide upon the beaches in meager shelters constructed from wreckage. Vulnerability defined.

Lovingly, I recalled this show tonight, as I walked toward DL's home nestled by a large cedar tree. I trailed my son whose guitar strap always trailed him in the dirt. Inside, two fiddles swung up and down, desiring "Soldier's Joy" reunion, desiring the pronouncement of war victory, war return, dancing cues, partner held, peace reigning upon the soldier's return home. An old tune of weighty- turned-jubilant times.

My shoulders started to relax.

I pushed my way inside the oval-framed door. Heard my fiddle friend's familiar laugh. Heard the Teacher encourage. Heard my son speak.

I could stop. Stop. Stop. It was truly enough.

Yet more was offered, and I brought an empty basket. And a mandolin. And a son. And one of my dearest oldest girlfriends was learning the fiddle in the lesson before us. She decided to stay, and we all sat in a circle. Cats around our feet. A dimmed light. A peacefulness and a brimming happiness overtook us.

Our son said to close our eyes while playing "Cripple Creek." And, we did, laughing at first, then removed by sound and seal, removed from everything but fingers and notes, and then opening to  restoration in one completed moment.

Our Teacher, DL, promotes such goodness. My son is healed while there, highly encouraged, happy. The finest therapy money can purchase. I am also healed. My friend once said that she is too.

When I think of the survivors on Lost, I remember that they too had such moments within a few discovered safe places, with people whom they could share such beneficent exchange. Darkness surrounding yet light splaying.

Grace, grow; spread; illuminate to rescue all.

Cody at Dierik's house one day.

D's cat.

Frankenstein funk

Frankie. Why did you do it? Why do you have such insatiable desires for revenge upon your Maker? Yes, he abandoned you. Yes, you repulsed him. But, why kill innocent victims as a means to a vile end?

I am teaching Frankenstein once more which explains my dream of him right before waking. My "Frankie" was a woman (yet recognized as Frankenstein) who took young schoolboys and drowned them in a bathtub. Even my own son's turn came up, and I followed her spluttering, "Stop!" but was unable to prevent her from holding him under.

Later, I had the painful thought, "Why didn't I stop her? Why didn't I immediately go to the authorities? Why did none of the eyewitnesses do so?" And, no soothing answers were found. So, I've awakened in a bit of a sad funk, wondering what my dream was about. Knowing, though.

Yesterday the issue of school came up. A mother of a son with dyslexia and I spoke of our fantasy schools which would accept and work with our sons. Then, later at my school's basketball game, various people asked about my son's public school experience. Politeness dictates that you don't spew forth your own anxieties; you respond as favorably as possible. But, on the way home, your son tells you how much he hates school. I trust his reasons. A child must learn to march on, though. Real life means this, right?

School placement has always been a Frankenstein for us.

Thus, I need God this morning to help me not sink into the despair and helplessness of the dream. Therefore, I'll end with a picture to counter the monster, and I'll trust in Christ's goodness to walk alongside us in the sometimes foggy and fearful world. Amen.

Blessed aggression

I'm sure there's a Bible verse which applies to doing the opposite of what's shown above. But, I can look at the violence depicted with warmth and gratitude. Thank you, Aggressive Competitor Spirit, who overtook my son last night during an indoor soccer match.

In our family, soccer has a story of its own, beginning with adorable little soccer outfits which had to be discarded. Autism and adhd made a team sport virtually impossible. From the sidelines, we were in pain. On the field, our son was in lalaland or anti-team land or coach-yelling-his-name-a-thousand-times-land or other players looking at him with repulsion and anger land. When he came off the field, he was broken in a thousand pieces; one more piece of ground where he was asked to leave and not be a part of. I can see his contorted face now, remember our contorted hearts, and the persisent thought, "One more thing to give up."

Then there was a period of martial arts, independent work.

However, as my son matured (and with the love of his dad for sports), he sought activity, running, kicking, throwing => adopted the ball fascination boys have. It's one of the dreams his father desired.

Soccer returned for a trial at the private Christian school where I teach and where my son attended for awhile. The first week was a disaster as my son told the coach not to tell him what to do; when the boys tried to help him along by yell-instructing him, my son spoke back; when he got in the van afterwards, we listened, calmed, encouraged incessantly. Some practices were psychologically disastrous; some were alright. We held our breath.

Yet he continued on. The boys accepted him. He had an incredible spurt of speed, and he improved quickly. He was complimented upon his success on the field. I'll never forget a certain smile: rare pride of self; a flash of wholesome happiness. We had all been in a desert for so long in many areas besides sports.

Thus to help him with his skills, I signed him up for a privace recreation center's indoor soccer league. I was afraid, prayerful => how would the boys treat him? Would the coach be a yeller? Would this backfire? Would he get hurt? I called and spoke with the coach for reassurance. Alright, who needs her St. John's Wort now in horse-pill size?

Last year in this league, my son was timid, just as I was fearful. The playing was good, though. The boys were kind like at school. My son was 50/50 on his perceptual playing. We van-counseled in the van, yes, but we enjoyed, and he endured again.

Last night was his first game this year in the same league. The timid boy is gone. He can sprint like lightening, and he can push and shove against the indoor wall. His father and I had smiles on our faces to see such boldness. We all celebrated in the car on the way home as Cody, with wholesome happiness, related how he did it, and to whom, and how it felt so good.

Amen for paths which signify more than one knows.