atheism

Why is atheism cool?    ...  Why?  Tell me. Tell me why atheism is the new thing to do and why all of my friends seem caught in this cycle of Godless jokes, games, books, and lifestyles. What ever happened to sold-out Christians? Whatever it was, it hurt.  Whatever it was, I don’t want it. Whatever drug they’re taking, I’m jumping lines. Whatever it is. I’m not interested.     

So why do I pretend to be interested?  I play with it, like fire...  Like kittens. Like a baby dragon. Like I have it under control and like I’m not in harm’s way. Like my hands are big enough to wisely guide my own fate. 

False. 

So false...  I can’t keep doing this. I need to decide, make decisions, hold to my promises, take the time to figure out who I am. And then take the time each day to make sure I stay that way.

"And now the weak say I have strength

By the spirit of power that raised Christ from the dead

And now the poor stand and confess

That my portion is Him and I'm more than blessed

Let now our hearts burn with a flame

A fire consuming all for your Son's holy name

And with the heavens we declare

You are our king

We love you Lord, we worship you

You are our God, you alone are good

You asked your Son to carry this

The heavy cross our weight of sin

I love you Lord, I worship you

Hope which was lost, now stands renewed

I give my life to honor this

The love of Christ, the savior king

Let now your church shine as the bride

That you soar in your heart as you offered up your life

Let now the lost be welcomed home

By the saved and redeemed those adopted as your own

I give my life to honor this

The love of Christ, the savior king"

C'est tout.

“I’m so glad you came... It’s been raining all day.  It is such a cold world, such a break down world without you...” 

So I turn my face to the wind... What I smell is real, what I feel is truth, what I’m seeking is you... “You brought hope to those of us who had none.”

Turn again. Away from the wind... let the gust catch your sails, let the real smells and truths inside carry you forward. Because that’s all you have... When the Mona Lisa Smile has faded and when the nakedness of life is cut by the raw path of the orphans - heading home...   All you can do is smile. Smile again. And again...  Laugh. Again and again...   Name the ocean and then sail it. Catch the tide and then tame it. Or let it tame you. I’d rather be tamed by the oceans then set free by the political masses and poverty mindsets surrounding our beaches. These white sands only hold freedom if you have the courage to touch the water... People die in deserts. 

But people also die in water...  People die in the air. People die in peace. People die in war. 

People die. 

I’m alive. For now. I am called to worship... to sing out. To declare “things that are not, as if they are.” I live daily and I die daily. I am filled and I am emptied. 

So I turn my face to the wind... the salty wind. The wind I’ve waited for. The change I’ve hoped for... Soon the tide will change and the boat will sail. These hopes and dreams will never fail. Boats sink, winds bring storms. Tides break and the compass falls overboard. But my hopes and dreams can rescue me...  My mind is free.

To Dwell

 To dwell

To live

To survive

…To thrive…

To find what was once forever lost

Attaining the impossible

Looking for light

Finding a path

Walking

Falling

Getting up hurts worse than falling…

this time…

It hurts…

This learning to drink deep

This looking for comfort in the right place…

This place I’ve never been… before.

Seek and ye shall find…

Seeking hurts this time.

But I’m finding…

Yes…  I’m finding.

I’m dwelling

A small, black body, crumpled on the ground – the perfect picture of fear. The ribs protrude from the burned flesh, and even the grey dust beneath him seems to reject his tears of pain. A vulture watches his fetal position, hoping that his small chest will cease to rise and fall . . .  he’s been waiting for days to catch this meal. Maybe he won’t wait. It’s not like this innocent can defend himself. He couldn’t even keep himself alive . . . 

Black hair is curled into little nubbins atop his head, resting in the dirt. Hand in pathetic fists, his belly scraping the ground that once gave him food. A heart broken, not from the abuses of man, but broken by the neglect of nature pounds faintly through his chest – a chest pressed close to the earth . . . Maybe Mother Nature will hear it scream.

Where is the fantastic mystery?

When did we cease to dream?

Who will carry the sadden hearts, the awakened minds. . . 

these starving branches that find home in our fires?

We have conquered the world, enslaved it in chains. . . 

And we watch it die

                     Ignore the cries

Ignore the black bodies, surrounded by flies.

Where is the emergency exit? Why have we locked the doors?

                       We wait for the perfect moment

                       To snap our Polaroid view.

Let’s parade this sorrow on magazine pages, awareness will only take us so far.

This chaos was never a dream, it’s a forgotten memory.

And I’m choosing to live inside my tear-strewn world.

I’m choosing to give up my home made swords.

                I can’t break the bombs,

 I can’t hold the reins.

                This mud on my eyes told me I can’t see.

                                         But I believe these tears can still rescue me.

At least my mind is free . . . 

Watch It

http://www.ihop.org/resources/2011/07/15/pursuit-of-the-holy/

You won't regret it...

"She unfurls her

brow

and strips off the layers of

fear;

shame;

decades of lies.


She's (be)coming clean

and shouting the truth from the mountain tops,

her mouth

no longer sewn shut.


She's dancing

like the gazelle

that prance

across

the African desert.


In the desert?


Dancing?


Yes.


And more than that -

she's whistling like a canyon wren.



She's standing next to

Love,

whose gleaming light pierces,

whose purity sweeps away,

whose freedom dismantles,

whose voice washes over,

every snarling half-truth,

every single false deception,

every would-be last word.


She will no more be termed Forsaken.

She will no longer be called Desolate, but

she will be called My Delight is in Her.

Love delights in her.


Could there be a more beautiful story?

Could there be more good news than this?


To beauty

from ashes.

To gladness

from mourning.

To praise

from despair.

To righteousness -

even after every single unclean thing she had ever

said

or done

or thought about doing.


This story -

this one about redemption,

this one that's being unveiled right now -

must be told!



She rises.

She shines.

She embraces the truth that

she is loved."

a restless mind

“Un et deux et trois et quatre...”  The slow counting drifts past my ears along with the staggered piano notes. I came down to the chapel to study in solitude but was soon joined by my friend Keity Hodgson and her new piano student. Teaching piano lessons in French must be a marvelous way to practice her language skills. I’m a little jealous at first, but then the thought of actually having to teach the piano lessons everyday makes me remember why I’m not doing that... 

My jasmine tea has finished steeping and I’m excited to drink it. I’m so cliché. Karunesh is streaming from my computer and mixing with the smell of the jasmine tea... I have a sudden urge to meditate. Maybe I will...  

later.

For now I’ll pour myself some tea.

My tea cup is a small pottery bowl, made by the hands of a friend. The name “Ally” is carved into the bottom by the hands of a skillful artist  and looking at it reminds me of wonderful days with friends. The first time I saw it, sitting on the black pedestal, waiting to be sold, I knew that it was going to be mine...  The artistic cracks in the green glaze have slowly turned a light brown, due to my incessant drinking of tea. But I like it. It gives my cup character. Personality. 

Another cup of tea.

The floor is dirty, but I go barefoot anyway. It makes me feel organic. I like to feel my toes bend when I walk. It makes me feel wild...  Am I wild? Am I unpredictable?  . . . Do I want to be? I don’t know. But I like it anyway.

The Humble Mug Position. My friend Melissa Lubke (then Magee) and I developed that saying two years ago. It’s that position when you have a large mug or cup of warm tea, coffee, hot cocoa, or anything warm and cozy sitting in your hands. Both hands. The position you must assume when you feel the warmth on your hands and then bring the cup nearer to your face because your want to be closer to it. Pulling your hands and, consequently, the mug in towards your body, you assume The Humble Mug Position. Why is it so humble?  Try yelling at someone or mocking someone or being rude from that position. It’s the most humble, comforting, wonderful position you can assume. If all the world's leaders had mugs of hot cocoa in their hands when they debated about the world's problems, we would get more accomplished. You can't have an ego in the Humble Mug Position.

When I’m typing, I drink with one hand. My left hand remains on the keyboard while my right hand reaches for my small bowl. Ally’s bowl... 

Stop. Ponder. 

Both hands leave the keyboard this time. It’s time for some Humble Mugness...

A feeling of relaxation and peace floods over me. I knew it would... It does every time. But it still surprises me. Every time. I guess I’m human... 

The piano lesson is still in full swing. I’ve memorized the simple melody. With the corresponding inversions of G and C chords in the left hand, she plays C-E C-E over and over again. It will be stuck in my hand all day...

It’s time to pour more tea.

My tea pot was a gift. My friend Kayla sent it to me for Christmas... She found it at one of my favorite stores: World Market. It’s the best tea pot I’ve ever owned, and I love it all the more, knowing that she selected it for me. 

More things than my tea pot remind me of Kayla. Every time I come to study in the chapel, I bring Leopold with me. When my mind can hold no more French, I pick him up and play... He needs new strings, but I’m picky, and I have been unable to find Elixirs anywhere in Geneva. He’ll get new strings for Christmas.  Today I’m going to work on one of my favorites... “Hallelujah,” the Rufus Wainwright edition... I realized yesterday afternoon that I had forgotten how to play it, and so, all of my study breaks today will be dedicated to relearning that wonderful piece of music. Kayla wouldn't have to relearn it. Kayla is an excellent guitarist...  I wish that she could be here to play with me. 


I need to brew more water for tea. African spiced rooibos this time, I think...

I’m a selfish creature. I keep checking the clock. How long can a piano lesson take? My ideas about global rules restricting the length of piano lessons to 30 minutes have all been shattered. How could I be so misguided...? I guess in France they take C and G chords very seriously. Though, in France, they’re not called C and G, they are referred to as Do and So.  


Life is so different here. I like it. Slow and steady. Refined and casual. French. I'd like to live here someday.

I want to work for National Geographic. 

I want to work for A21.

I want to work for TWLOHA.

I want to get paid, the rest of my life, to meditate and drink jasmine tea...

But I probably won’t get any of those.

But at least, for right now, I have French.