She I Was Called To Be

This is my woman's heart, how You made it from the start: delicate and vulnerable. My walls I've broken down, and even though I'm scared, I'm not going to bring them back around, because in this place I've begun to blossom into she I was called to be.
This is my cry to all the girls who've lost their way or been pushed astray: "Follow me! I've found a way to the Father's heart; His love will bind the brokenness and fit the fallen pieces of your heart. Follow me to the Bridegroom's house! His touch restores purity and provides true safety. Stop looking in the world's mirror, fellow daughters, and see instead your reflection in the eyes of the one who counts each heartbeat as more precious than emeralds and sapphires.
A soft but unbreakable strength is worn by the woman who knows undoubtedly that she is loved. A loved woman will remain firm when the rest of the earth trembles, for she knows what she is standing on and is anchored securely in that love. Love not as man sees it, and perhaps thinks he knows it, but love that surpasses all height or depth of knowledge and is the very nature of God.

Vintage Bride

Vintage. Shabby chic. Refurbished antiques. It's a trend that's caught on like wild fire and doesn't appear to be going out any time soon. I noticed it a lot more this last year as I planned my wedding. You see it here and there in the every day world, but in the, as I've come to call it, wedding world, it's glaringly everywhere. It's so wide spread, anyone not following the trend feels outdated about not using outdated things.
It didn't really find it's way into my wedding because I felt seriously inadequate to do justice to the theme. Not everyone can decorate with things gathered from a garage sale and end up making it look like a magazine shoot. I had a feeling if I attempted the feat it would look more like, well, a garage sale. I like the look though. It adds a warm homemade feeling, something akin to that sensation you get when you hug your grandma after she's been baking and smells like cinnamon and snickerdoodles. It reflects a heritage while leaving room to add touches of "you." Connecting generations, if you will.
That being said, I find it a rather ironic trend, in the wedding world especially. Why? Because the supposed antiquated ideals have been peeled away from the vintage replications. To put it simply, marriage is being celebrated in a way that appears similar to how it might have fifty years ago, but lived without those fundamental values that make it last that long.
Vintage is popular until it comes to morals.
People have a tendency to express surprise when they find out the deeper details of the beginning of my marriage: You didn't live together or sleep together before you were married? No. He asked your dad if he could date you? Yes, the word court might have even been mentioned. You changed your last name to his and didn't even hyphenate? Yes. You didn't put a note somewhere acknowledging the injustice of gays not being able to marry? No. Your dad gave you away at the wedding, not just his blessing? Yes. Yes, we did, along with many other traditions that are suddenly non traditional.
Personally, I really like some of the ways weddings have changed over the years. We had a photobooth at our wedding and danced back down the aisle to a song from Grease. The bridesmaids' dresses were all different styles and we served our guests ice cream cupcakes. I love seeing how each couple makes their wedding unique to them and had fun doing so with ours. But there are some traditions that I refuse to let go of no matter how outdated they may seem. "Til death do us part," is one of those. Not the death of feelings or emotions, but a commitment to the unification of our lives until our bodies no longer house our spirits.
I'm not going to pretend to be an expert on marriage after two whole months of wedded bliss. I'll be the first to admit that I have a lot to learn; I might as well be on my honeymoon! (Which I don't intend to end, by the way.) Regardless though, I plan to build my marriage on values that many have declared outdated. Even though it didn't show in the decor, apparently I am a vintage bride.

Purple Skies And Blue Grass

Have you ever tried to color a picture with a four year old? Their little hands grip the crayons and they often want to work on the same section as you. Crayons end up clashing until you give up and move on to another part. Some of them try to stay inside the lines and end up spilling over less. Others don't seem to recognize that there are lines at all. The color choices are generally creative too; they'll make the skies purple and the grass blue. Matching isn't a concern, and realistic portrayals aren't something they're generally aware of. If you were attempting to color something meant for display or masterpiece quality, you have chosen the wrong partner. They just drag their crayons around the paper, scribbling blissfully and helping you fill the page with haphazard blotches of color.

Sometimes I feel like that's what life with God is like, only I'm the four year old. He puts us in this world and says, "Be creative! Color it in with Me." And we end up scribbling every where and going hopelessly out of the lines. But He doesn't mind. He smiles with real joy at the work we've done and says, "Good job! It's looking beautiful. What should we do over here?" He looks with the tender eyes of a Father that delights to create with us. He's not deterred by the mistakes we've made and even works them to fit in with the rest of the picture in the end. They don't throw Him off course.

As we continue to create with Him, we learn to follow His lead and remain inside the lines to produce a more detailed picture. I am amazed though, that regardless of how much I learn or don't learn, God still displays my life like a father putting his child's picture on the refrigerator, as if to say, "Look at what my daughter has done!" He doesn't see scribbles, He sees a heart desiring to make something with Him, partnering with Him despite shortcomings and willing to let Him make up the difference where lacking. He works everything together for our good. Those purple skies and blue grass? He'll even turn them into a sunset over the water, as if that's how the image was originally meant to appear.

The Question

Today, I would like to take a moment and recognize all of those people in the world like myself who struggled with, and strongly disliked, a certain simple question.

I could usually see it coming. Well-meaning strangers, who had already covered the weather and other current unimportant categories of small talk, would generally follow with the question. They didn’t mean to be rude. They were simply trying to avoid one of those awkward silences, but little did they know they were about to create one. There would be a short pause and perhaps a quick glance at their feet as they shifted weight and searched for something else to say. I would try, I really would, to insert a question of my own into the conversation at this point. I was usually too late. Their faces would light up as they found inspiration down near their shoes and they’d look up to ask, “So, where do you go to school?” Perhaps it wasn’t the question so much as the reaction to the answer I wanted to avoid. You see, I was one of those kids. Yes, I was homeschooled.

After I informed them of my location of education would come the look. Uncertainty mixed with confusion as their feet suddenly became interesting once again. Common responses to my apparently abnormal answer included but weren’t limited too:

“Well that’s…nice."

“Oh." 

“Do you do school in your pajamas?”

“Do you like it?”

“I knew somebody who was homeschooled once.”

I always wanted to reply to that last one with “Small world.” It’s really not that rare of a phenomenon. It’s not even a phenomenon. (I apologize if you weren’t homeschooled and that last word had too many syllables.)

Homeschooling isn’t that rare, so why did people react like I’d just informed them that I was involved in a weird, secret club? (Granted, unless you were homeschooled you probably don’t understand that Saxon is equivalent to cruel and unusual mathematical torture, but that’s beside the point.) According to current research, homeschooling has grown to about 2 million students in the U.S. Count the zeros folks: 2,000,000. So why do people still look confused when they meet people like me? The simple answer? We blend in. Like secret agents. (Well, not exactly like them.)

Sure, the shy homeschoolers in matching and slightly (or more than slightly) outdated outfits are easy to spot, but people sporting an excess of tattoos and purple hair and are unable to identify the U.S. on a map, are generally easily recognized as a product of public schools as well. (Why are we balking at the former and accepting the latter as normal anyway?) Neither stereotype fits well for the majority.

           

I was never sure if it was a compliment or not that people told me I didn't seem like a homeschooler. (I’ve successfully acquired social skills, yay me!) The reality is, most homeschoolers look and act pretty much like everyone else. We don’t all have super long hair, like to match our siblings, and spend every waking minute studying for the National Spelling Bee. Before you go rolling your eyes at those that do, take a moment to glance around your own local school at the wide range of individuals attending. People come in all varieties.

Before you are tempted to ask about socialization, just don't. If he or she is talking to you in a public place, let's save everyone trouble and recognize that they're being socialized as you speak. You can even pat yourself on the back as you realize that you have contributed to the very important process of an introduction to mainstream society. Way to help the world out, one homeschooler at a time. 

If you do happen to ask a homeschooler about where they attend school, keep smiling after they tell you and ask what their favorite subject is, or something similar, just like you would anyone else. It’s that easy. Personally, I no longer mind being "one of those kids" and will probably make my future children face the same question. Perhaps by then though the general population will realize how widespread homeschooling is. At the very least, they hopefully won't be asked as I once was, "Is that actually legal?" As legal as ignorance and cheaper too. 

Knocking

I can feel the knocking, pounding away and echoing throughout my entire body, echoing throughout my brain. But I can't seem to find the door. I want to open, I want to let it in and make the banging cease, but when I'm surrounded by walls that have no openings, how can I succeed?
What is truth? Tell me that I might inscribe it all around me—big letters, bold colors, words that I can hang onto. Find a crack, mind the gaps, make a way to enter. Or is it exit? Do I need to let something in or just get out to whatever's waiting on the other side?

Knocking, knocking, knocking...but then suddenly I see I'm the one who's knocking. I'm the one awaiting admittance. Admittance from a world I created too securely, a world that hides me from the world. What am I afraid they will see? What am I afraid they won't see? I am me. They are not even them. They are him and her, he and she, tall and short, blue and brown, green and hazel, dark and light—they are not them. The mass thins, individuals appear, all knocking, knocking, knocking...wanting to be free. I have found my door, I will help set them free.

Blinded By Brokenness

(John 20:11-20)

Can you imagine the confusion in the angels' faces as they asked Mary Magdalene, "Woman, why are you weeping?" They had just witnessed the pinnacle of supernatural battles between the kingdoms of darkness and light, and watched as Jesus emerged as the triumphant victor. I don't pretend to be an expert on the emotional levels of angels, but I would imagine they were incredibly excited about the recent events! Commissioned with the privilege to announce to all who came to the tomb that Jesus had arisen and won the battle over not only His own life, but also that of all of mankind as well, they had to have been confused to find this woman sobbing. 

"They have taken away my Lord," she explained as the reason for her tears. Didn't she hear anything Jesus had been preaching these last couple of years? Weeks even? Did she want Him to stay dead? Of course He's not going to lie in a stone box! He's just won the most epic battle of all time! People in love say the craziest things, for truly, she must love Him deeply to weep that way. 

And then Mary turned around, and looked right at Jesus. What mirth He must have had in His eyes as He waited excitedly for her to recognize Him. He gently asked the same question the angels did, "Woman, why are you weeping?" But still, she did not know Him. She looked right at Him, heard His voice, and still assumed Him to be someone else because the brokenness of her heart and the pain she felt blinded her from seeing the very one she was looking for. I can't help realizing I've done the same thing. 

How many times have I sat so consumed by my frustration, pain, and confusion, that I don't even recognize Jesus when He's right in front of me saying, "I'm right here, waiting for you to come to Me so I can comfort you." The truth is, He's never far away and always ready to take me into His arms and show me more of His overwhelming goodness. I just get so caught up in my own world and emotions that I forget sometimes and begin crying out, "Where are you?! I can't find you Abba!" And then, when I'm still enough to listen, the best part comes. Just like He did with Mary, He calls my name. Suddenly I'm reminded that He's right there, that He's never left and never will, and that all those things I was worried about don't matter, because He's in control. 

No one calls my name quite like he does either. He doesn't just speak a title that I've come to recognize as referring to me. His call speaks to the deepest places of my spirit and stirs up a royal identity that He put in me. It is an intimate and gentle touch on the most vulnerable and raw places of my being that says, "I know you, I've seen all of you and I delight in you." 

His goodness continues to amaze and overwhelm me. 

Yet Another Blogger

I've decided to join the blogging world. I know, I know—just about everyone and her sister is joining as well! It's almost like the new substitution for tupperware and jewelry parties (and chocolate, and candles, and makeup, etc). No offense whatsoever to people who host those parties, I just never quite understood them; although, I didn't mind the excuse to talk with girlfriends and eat chocolate. Actually, any reason to eat chocolate is good with me! (Excuse me while I grab some from my bowl of happiness. Yes, I have one, don't judge.)
Ahem, I digress.
I can't help feeling silly about creating a blog because I don't really have a common theme to write about. I don't have a new adorable mini me  to share pictures and cute anecdotes about. Cooking I do, but pictures of food creations probably won't make it here. I'm not promoting a home business. I like traveling, but don't do enough of it to write about. What do I plan to share then?
I like words. Scratch that, I love words. I love creating with them. Mulling them about, pushing and pulling on them until they reflect the picture I desire. They are my art medium, the blank page an exciting canvas. If you haven't started to think I'm crazy I commend and thank you. If you have, I understand and hope you'll hang around long enough to be thoroughly convinced, and perhaps join me. Life's just a lot more fun this way. I'm half joking. Maybe less than half.
If you follow my blog you'll find questions and musings on answers. You'll find random thoughts about all categories of subjects. You'll hear laughter, find mistakes, and question conclusions.
You can tell me if you like them, you can tell me if you dislike them, but just remember they're me. Or at least a part of me, and I realize I'm still growing. I've got a long ways to go, but this is my way of starting.
It is a beginning of learning to share words that I feel a need to say. So I'm saying them here. To whomever might want to listen and marvel at life along with me.

But He'll Stink!

I've read the story of Lazarus many times, but this section stayed with me today. John 11:39-40 "Jesus said, 'Remove the stone.' Martha, the sister of the deceased, said to Him, 'Lord, by this time there will be a stench, for he has been dead four days.' Jesus said to her, 'Did I not say to you that if you believe, you will see the glory of God?'"
Poor Martha, it is easy to remember her as the doubting sister, the one who had her priorities wrong. Unfortunately, I find myself relating to her all too often. Jesus was about to do an incredible miracle of raising a man from the dead. Not dead for a couple of minutes or hours either, but dead for four days, plenty of time for his body to begin rotting and decomposing. The build up in heaven was probably full of excitement as the angels watched Lazarus' spirit prepare to return to his body at the call of the King. I imagine them nudging each other saying, "Watch this! Jesus is going to amaze everybody with another miracle!"
But Martha was worried about the smell. Jesus told them to roll back the stone so that He could restore life to her brother, but Martha was concerned about the stink it might make. It struck me when I read the passage how often I have had a similar response. How many opportunities have I passed up for fear of looking funny, sounding weird, making a scene, or in some way making people uncomfortable with the possible "smell" that might result? Can you imagine if Jesus had responded with something along the lines of, 'You're right, Martha. He probably does smell horribly. Never mind with the stone guys! Leave it there. We'll just go grieve back at the house, it's better than enduring that smell."
It sounds absurd, but if I realized what I've passed up, wouldn't my excuses suddenly sound the same?
Reading on in the story, Lazarus comes forward despite his sister's misgivings; and no where was a smell mentioned. I don't know if Jesus' miracle included supernaturally removing inhaling any lingering effects of death, or if they were simply so shocked and over joyed to have Lazarus back that it suddenly became a minor concern and they forgot to mention it. Either way, it wasn't an issue. If God calls you to something, He'll be faithful to cover the details.
God help me to not let the fear of a "stench" hold me back from what you want to do in me and through me.

Laughter

Bubbling, skipping sounds that pile up one on top of the other until they fall and scatter in a hundred directions. Sounds that make the whole body shake with uncontrolled mirth. It fills the face with happy wrinkles and seeps from the eyes in tears of unrestrained joy. What a funny thing is this laughter. It throws off restraints of composure and turns the head red, contorts the body in odd shapes and twists the face until its expression is unreadable. Yet we call it beauty! Unrefined by learned attempts at perfection, it is cast in spontaneous bursts of joy.