Marcel

I just learned that the Italian part of me died this morning.

No, Calabria didn't blow up. Naples is still thriving. And, yes, I still love pasta and vespas and golden afternoon light cast on red geranium-lined allies falling on cobblestone.

My grandfather died. 92 years old. A beautiful man.

He had the softest shirts and awkward hugs that always let me know how much he cared and was scared to. His hands were worn with years of calculating numbers and signing papers and woodworking and crossword-puzzling. He loved simple, clean lines and made an art out of communicating quiet order. Unlike stereotypical Italian men, my grandfather was gentle, reserved, and his words, though not many, were always well thought out and intentionally spoken. He had a lot of steady wisdom to offer his crazy, free-spirited family and I know that, had we listened well, we would have probably saved ourselves from a lot of unnecessary trial. I know he passionately, in his own grandpa way, wanted us to know that what we perceived to be his critical nature was really his attempt to save us and love us. I got it much later on. I think we all, more or less, did. He was very patient.

I loved my grandpa though I didn't always understand him. I loved him even though I felt like I was strange to him at times. He was not a storyteller, leaving that to my vivacious Mayrette, so it wasn't until I began to ask questions--until my own self was ready to recede into the background a bit-- that I learned a little about who this mystery man was; about who my ancestors were. I wish I'd written it all down. The bits I remember are like loose diamonds ready to be cast into various metals, waiting to become precious adornment. They sit in my mind, beautiful, but not completely connected. A fire in Romania, refugees to Italy, a jeweler, an artist, cousins marrying, Calabria, Naples, immigration to America, born in New Jersey, domineering great grandmother, passive great grandfather who took his own life, grand aunt and uncles I never met. He owned a restaurant where he met my grandmother. He worked for Hughes Helicopters and eventually worked his way up to Vice President. He was smart, diligent, loyal, faithful. Three immensely creative and passionate children. Grandma got sick and he took care of her until she died. He married her lovely younger sister not much later. I was 4 or 5. He had 4 grandkids, visiting several times a year, and 6 great grandkids. He made the best pesto in the universe. The middle finger on one of his hands was slightly different than the rest and I loved looking at it because it meant: him. I loved his firm grandpa kisses and his thick white wavy hair and his olive skin and deep set eyes and his scent-- I've only smelled it one other time in my life and it was in the last year, somewhere in the world and the minute I caught it, I cried with longing to hug my grandpa, knowing even then I probably never would again because I live across the world and he was sick and I couldn't visit.
The last time I saw him was right after he had a stroke over a year ago. We visited him at this rehabilitation place and he couldn't talk coherently, but I held his hand and he told me I was a wonderful person and that it was good to see me and I thanked him for everything and we looked each other in the eyes knowing it would be the last time. I heard his heart agree to say goodbye in love. Many times after that as I thought about him and prayed for him, I wanted to deny what I knew to be true that day. It really was the last time I'd see him on this earth.
But I had a dream. Many years ago now. I had a dream that I saw him in Heaven. So I know he is there. I will hug him again and his smell will be wonderful and it will be eternal and he will get to tell me about all kinds of things and I will know him again, but better.

Marcel Francis Gerardis. It is so good to be a part of you.

Down in the Holl'r

Recently I was able to visit my husband's homeland, the great state of Virginia.
To be honest, I had been reluctant to go even though I've known great and wonderful people from Virginia. But not everyone I know from Virginia comes from the same area where Clint grew up. You see, my husband is a geographically certified hillbilly. I did not know I had prejudices against hillbillies until I met Clint and they continued to stew for the better part of the last year and a half. Whenever he'd reminisce about the good ol' days back home in Appalachia (for the rest of you who are not from that area, it's pronounced Apple-atcha by natives), I would secretly cringe inside, knowing that one day I'd actually have to go and encounter these people who speak weird and like wood paneling and bad wood carvings and fake flowers. Only to Clint it wasn't actually a secret that I dreaded going. It wasn't a secret that I was a snobby Californian who judged his people.
Despite myself, I loved Virginia. We started up near our nation's capital in Fairfax, VA where Clint's mom, dad and sister live. His mom had to work for most of our trip, but we got to take her to work a couple of times and I got to see where she spent a lot of her time (and subsequently where Clint spent 5 years of his life working the same job-- contract delivery driving for the postal service). His sister played tour guide and we cruised around D.C. I am a lame traveller in the sense that I could care less about seeing monuments. They thought I'd want to walk around the Lincoln and Jefferson memorials, stare at the White House, visit the Smithsonian, etc. I told them I was content doing a drive-by...I'd rather discover the cool parts of the city where we'd find a good hole-in-the-wall Greek diner. We found one called The Greek Spot. It was pretty decent.
Our second day was spent exploring a cute town called Lucketts and going antiquing. Then we ventured into Maryland once I found out how close we were. It wasn't too long before we were in West Virginia, yes, eating dinner and playing slots at Hollywood Casino. Clint was mortified as his sister and I went from nickel slots to penny slots and back again. We didn't lose ALL of it.
The next 5 days were spent down in Clint's hometown, Stickleyville. It was a 7 hour drive to get there, through endless groves of deciduous trees in full fall array. Breathtaking.
A good amount of Clint's extended family, on both sides, still live in Stickleyville. I do not know what the population of this tiny farm community is, but it's TINY. And most of the residents are related to Clint in one way or another. To be honest, the place spooked me at first. And, by spook, I mean creeped me out in its ability to fulfill all stereotypes I'd had. While I did not see children running around shirtless in bib overalls and barefoot, I did see my share of double wide trailers with rocking chairs on the front porch and dogs chained to barrels outside. There were also quite a few barns with what looked like drying leather or some sort of thick herbs hanging in the doorways. Clint let me know it's what's called "hangin' 'baccer" (hanging tobacco). I couldn't snort-laugh when I heard this because I didn't want to shame his niece Verity, who was sitting in the back seat and who still lives in that area.
Like I thought, every house we entered had wood paneling, fake flowers and even his sweet Mamaw Rasnic (grandma)-- who lives on Rasnic Hollow Road, had two wood carvings of hillbillies toting jugs of moonshine-- yes, Clint's ancestors were Moonshiners. And, as I expected, every place we went, we were served up biscuits, ham and bottomless cups of sweet tea. Everyone was 'just as nice as they could be' and I immediately picked up the accent. We were able to experience a church service at Wallens Creek Covenant Church where Clint attended many services growing up and whose Camp he worked at for several summers. He hadn't been back in about 10 years and everyone there was SO excited to see him and to meet this curious Californian bride they'd all heard about. I shook many hands and heard many voices lifted in hymnal song, harmonizing in that ol' bluegrassy kind of way. It was totally surreal to me. I loved it.
We got to stand on the place in the Cumberland Gap where Virginia, Tennessee and Kentucky meet. We went antiquing around those areas, visited various relatives, played rounds of Hand and Foot and had the most marvelous time.
We headed back up north to spend the last couple days of our trip with friends of Clint's and with his mama (who we talked into getting a new 'do' and does she look sassy!). Clint's friends Adam (the best man at our wedding) and Nikki are awesome... they are the type who stand by you through thick and thin, always encouraging and praying for you. They have 2 adorable children, Jacob and Lily. I was so thankful we got to spend time with them, albeit brief. We also got to spend an afternoon with a woman Clint has known his whole life, Wendy. I'd heard many stories about this world-traveling woman from England who, upon seeing Stickleyville, decided with her husband to settle there. They built a house not far from Clint's homestead and their little daughter was Clint's sister's best friend. Wendy recently relocated up near D.C. to live with family and we had a beautiful time of sharing. She even gave Clint a children's book about sharks that he used to look at all the time at her house growing up. Tears flowed abundantly.
What I learned while in Virginia is that prejudices are stupid and they trap us. My heart is still warm with the homefires I got to partake of, both spiritual and literal, while visiting friends and family in Appalachia. I think my husband is really fortunate to have grown up with such caring, servant-hearted, hard-working, family-oriented people. I reap the benefits daily.

Nothing in Particular

It's 9:38 pm. I just finished eating a plate of spaghetti and the best thing about it were the artichoke hearts I cooked into the sauce. In about an hour and half, Clint will get home from work. This was the afternoon I was supposed to spend doing art of some kind. Not homework -related art, as the semester has ended, but just the anything-I-want kind. We even took apart my dining-room studio yesterday, cleaned it out and rearranged it so that I could have a fresh start today. Instead, a handful of people called this afternoon and then some of them came over. It's now late and all I've sketched today are some tree skeletons. At least it's something.
I am in a funny place in life. Now that I don't have school telling me what I should draw or paint or sculpt and how I should do it, I have to try and figure out what it is I actually like to do. Paint? Draw? Definitely not sculpt, I know that much. What do I feel like communicating through image? Do I just want to lay medium down on paper and let my soul and arms do the work or do I want to really plan out what I want to show? Gah! It's odd to have the freedom I need to have in order to do what I want to do and instead am sitting at the computer typing about what I wanted to do earlier. I am nervous, intimidated, daunted by my options. I thought I might want to draw some barren trees in charcoal on watercolor paper. I started to and I don't like it. I have to go back to it, study it, figure out if I want it to look more realistic or impressionistic or representational or... do I do it all in charcoal? add paint? add oil pastel? all of the above?
I have decided to discontinue going to art school. The cost is too overwhelming. Clint and I want to buy a house, travel around visiting people we love and miss, raise some kiddos (no, I'm not pregnant, yet, but still trying). It's one of those frustrating things in life, facing the letting go of come-lately dreams. I love the Academy of Art University. But, I will never be an artist for Pixar or Disney. I'll probably never show in a hip New York Gallery. Other than glorifying God with the talents He's given me, these are reasons for continuing toward a degree. An education can be garnered anywhere you seek learning and so I've decided to continue my education by hanging out with other artists in town, by checking out dvd's from the library, by attending cool workshops whenever we can afford it. Over time, I will grow as an artist as long as I continue to practice, observe, record and play. A degree guarantees me an overwhelming debt load, not a career. I go back and forth on this, but mostly I'm convinced that if I continue to offer this talent up to God, He will make a path for it. I will miss taking classes at such a cool University and getting incredible feedback and instruction from seasoned instructors. But, it's time to move on to other wonderful things in life. Like, going to bed.
Goodnight!

The Debt of Love

"Owe no one anything except to love one another, for he who loves another has fulfilled the law." Romans 13:8

Clint and I are taking Crown Financial Ministries to help us get on the same page regarding our finances and how we manage our money as a couple. We were asked to look up this verse today (and two others) and then answer a question: Why is debt discouraged in Scripture? After thinking on this for a while, I answered the question and then moved on to other things. About an hour later, I got to thinking about this particular verse again.

Like many couples, Clint and I have very different habits regarding how we handle money and our attitudes toward it. Without going into detail about our differences, let's just say it is THE area of conflict in our young marriage. Not shocking. As I evaluate my part in the conflict and how my attitudes and actions add strain, I am forced to look at the things I value and what I cling so tightly to. Today I realized at a deeper level that the things we cling to are what we become indebted to, what we become slaves to. I am not Buddhist, but Siddartha had it right when he said that the reason we suffer is due to clinging to the impermanent. Now, Buddha did not believe in God, so I will now turn to Christ who said that we cannot serve both God and money, for we will love one and hate the other. Hatred is suffering. When I cling to money, things, and the 'security' I believe they give me, I am not clinging to God, the Giver of all things. When I rely on stuff, when I cling to the impermanent, I become a slave to it because I live in constant fear of my security being taken away. When another human being comes to use, take away, borrow, etc my stuff, i.e. source of security, I feel hate and I suffer. Now, clinging to stuff doesn't necessarily have to do with financial debt, except that the desire for unnecessary stuff can get us into debt. But any kind of slavery leads us to hatred and loathing. It leads us away from love.
According to God, he wants me to be free from all kind of debt, all kinds of slavery. The only thing I should be captured by is love. To truly love God and to truly love my husband, I need to not put things and money before either of them. I owe them love, not hate.

Charles Clinton Parsons

He's the reason I haven't blogged since July.
Technically, that's a lie, but I blame it on him because a new relationship can be all-consuming. Or rather, since most of what I have been processing since July has been related to Sir Parsons, I have chosen to not blog in order to process things with him. It has been a wise choice. I've opened my heart to him, he's opened his heart to me and we've decided that we mutually adore each others' hearts enough to keep adoring them until 'death do we part'.

Clint and I 'met' online.
It's all the rage you know.
Prior to signing up for a dating website, I had scoffed at them. That is until I started meeting the awesome people close friends and family members of mine had met and started dating online. I fought the act of submitting a profile for a long time, wanting to hold out for that supernatural fairy-tale story of meeting my husband on a bumped flight or reaching for the same book at a hole- in- the- wall bookshop thousands of miles from home. I waited a long time for something super cool and movie-like to happen. Then I hit my thirties and I was over it.
After reading the story of how Abraham's servant 'found' Rebekah for his master's son, Isaac, God loudly pointed out the obvious: "Amy, she was out in the open. She was on her way to water camels. She wasn't sitting in her room pining and waiting. You have to be 'out there'. The guy needs to be able to see you and know you're there!"
Made sense.
So, I put myself 'out there'. Being a missionary in a foreign country where few single eligible men in my age group dared to venture made it difficult to meet someone. Living in a tiny coastal California town and being the only single Christian woman in my age range made it difficult to meet someone. I even moved to Denver, a city where I knew my prospects would grow exponentially. And then I couldn't find a church where I connected. Until the very end of my time there. Until I had already 'met' Clint online.
So, Charles Clinton Parsons.
His profile picture on the website is what immediately caught my attention. He was making an 'Amy face' (wide-eyed, mouth in the shape of an 'o', eyebrows looking surprised). Plus, he was cute. Plus, his profile wasn't a literary paint-by-number which the majority of guys' profiles are. I had decided early on that I wasn't going to contact any of the men on there. I would let them pursue me. After deleting a couple of emails from some guys in foreign countries looking for a green card, I saw Clint's email. By some of the questions he asked, it was obvious he had actually read my profile, so I wrote him back. Then he wrote me back, etc until after several times we decided to video chat. I purposely made my hair messy and put my glasses on so that he could see the 'real me'. According to him, I was the cutest thing he'd ever seen, and so began our odd, but God-directed journey together.
Clint is 38, is from Stickleyville, Virginia (in the western-most county of VA that butts up against Tennessee), has a bachelor's degree in Youth Ministry and has the most golden heart of any man I've ever met. He's my height, still has most of his hair, has gorgeous green/hazel eyes and nice straight teeth. He's intelligent, is well-written and has a great sense of humor that I completely don't find funny. But other people do, so it's okay. He's never been married and has no kiddos. He loves his family. He is totally servant-hearted. He has a deep, abiding passion for Jesus and wants everyone to know the freedom that is available through Him. He's never been out of the country and I can't wait to take him somewhere. He plays bass, guitar, clarinet, tuba... I think there are more, but I can't remember. He is super handy and can fix just about anything. He loves me like Jesus does and it continually blows my mind. He had been planning on moving to Denver to attend seminary there, which is another reason he contacted me. So, he moved out to Denver from Virginia early August. I was in Cambria for my brother's wedding while while he was driving out to Denver. Our first meeting was at the airport when he came to pick me up. He showed up with a huge bouquet of flowers in all my favorite colors. I sort of gave him the cold shoulder. I was being very guarded. That lasted about a day and a half and then my heart couldn't hold back anymore. He was too wonderful.
Clint and I both had planned on being in Denver for a while. However, circumstances for me changed when I was given 3 weeks to find a new place to live. He also, after touring Denver Seminary, decided he actually didn't want to go. And then he was told he had to move out of the place he was staying due to issues going on with the family he was staying with. I wasn't able to find a place and neither was he, so we decided to come out to Cambria. It was a quick decision, but we both knew God was pushing us out here. It's been rough ever since. Clint has been sleeping on couches, in laundry rooms, on floors for the last 4 months. It took him 2 months to find steady work. I have been working part time and going through my second grueling semester of art school. We have been battling everything from our pasts, from our present, from the enemy, from ourselves. It has been a relationship forged in fire. How could I not love a man who would continue to stand through it all?
Clint has been my support, my emotional punching bag, my best friend, my enemy, my brother, my father, my boyfriend. He is everything God ever promised me in a mate and so much more than I ever even knew to ask for. And I can't wait to spend the rest of my life with him, discovering more of Jesus together.
And, I can't wait for him to meet all of you!

Ask and Ye Shall Receive

So, my car was broken into night before last. Whoever did it completely busted my driver's side window, ripped apart my console, stole my stereo and my entire CD collection. Thank goodness I did not have any thing else of 'value' in the car. After fretting for a bit, I knew I needed to pray and ask my Father to help me restore those things, inexpensively. I saw that damage as I was walking to work, so I had little time to really deal with the issue since I had to work a full day. I filed a police report, called my insurance company (only to find I don't have the coverage that would cover the loss) and had my roommate drop me off at work. I was definitely stirred up. As I stressed over the thought of having to figure out where I was going to get the best deal on auto glass and installation, one of my co-workers suggested calling a salvage yard. I called my roommate and asked if she would do that for me since I was working. Half and hour later she called me back letting me know that she found a yard that had a window for me. I could pull it myself for $35 or have them do it for $50. I don't make/have a lot of money and $15 right now is more than I can just throw around. I pondered what I might do as I washed dishes and it occurred to me to ask my friend Jeff who was sitting in the coffeeshop doing some work on his computer. I ran out there, let him know what had happened and asked if he had any clue how or any willingness to extract a window from a vehicle. He said he could probably do it and would be happy to help me the next day (today).
Jeff not only spent almost two hours trying to get this window out of the junked car, but then offered to install it into mine! He spent his entire morning and afternoon in the hot sun laboring on my behalf and all he wanted as payment was a ride to the grocery store.
In all, I spent $35 for a new window and the owner of the salvage yard threw in a new console for free!
When God challenges us to ask-- of Him and of others-- we can expect that when we do, we will receive.

Coffee Shop

All this week thoughts of blogging have been flitting through my brain. What to blog about? Why do I even still keep a blog? I think it's because I love to write and every so often a moment has a multi-dimensional, vibrant quality to it that causes me to want to capture it, look at it from different angles and make it completely my own. I haven't had too many of those moments lately. Unless you count the few seconds interval on my walk to the gym the other day where I passed a woman's black pleather belt which looked as though it had been used as a weapon the night before and then passed by a men's once-white crew sock limpily hanging off the curb, looking very much like the victim of belt war tactics. I chuckled and then sighed to myself seeing these two elements as symbolic representations of some broken male-female relating. I quickly concluded that it wouldn't make a very interesting blog article on its own, but I just had to stick it in one anyway.
This morning I awoke with a strong desire to sit in a random coffee shop and blog. I had a Groupon (coolest thing EVER-- every morning I get a coupon emailed to me for some kind of service offered at a crazy discount price) for an oil change on my car and needed to take it in. I just dropped off my car and started walking toward the King Soopers shopping center out this way, having been told by the car place guy that he thought there might be an Einstein Bagels in that general area. Halfway there, I glimpsed a sign 'COFFEE SHOP'. Random coffee shop. Way better.
So, I'm sitting here, drinking an iced coffee, listening to Roy Orbison on the radio and just writing because it feels good. I still love my new church-- starting our first single women's small group tomorrow night. I love being in on the ground floor of things. And, I just need to meet more regularly with people who are trying to know more and more what it means to love and be loved by Jesus in America. I am keen to know how these girls see their faith, how they choose to live it out in the world around them. I crave to hear their personal struggles, to listen as they share what Scriptures they might hold onto when they feel lost. My soul just needs to know: how real IS Jesus in the lives of people around me who claim to know Him?
I have realized that I am desperate to hear these faith confessions because I feel like my own walk of faith has taken on a completely new life, that sometimes feels like death. I was reading in Matthew the other morning, 'You are the salt of the earth; but if salt loses its flavor, how shall it be seasoned?' Ugh. I used to feel so dang salty. To be honest, I used to be a total spice cabinet. Today I am just begging God to not let me become completely flavorless. It freaks me out that I'm questioning things I once wholeheartedly knew-- and not out of cynicism, either. Not even out of doubt. More out of: how in the world did I go from being an MVP to one standing in line outside the park staring at the corn dog seller? How did I go from seeing the Kingdom of God all around me to being one who listens to others talking about it? I can imagine the Israelites during the 3 and a half year drought during Ahab's reign commenting to each other: 'Remember the rain? Remember how when it rained it would cool down for a while and then get insanely hot right after? Remember when we could go down to the brook and stick our feet in the water?' I feel like I'm having to constantly remind myself: remember when you used to pray for people and they would be set free? remember that time in Indonesia when... remember that time in Nigeria when...
But then Elijah prayed and the deluge came. "Elijah was a man with a nature like ours, and he prayed earnestly that it would not rain; and it did not rain for three years and six months. And he prayed again, and the heaven gave rain, and the earth produced its fruit.' James 5:17,18
Keep praying for rain, Amy. It will come again.

The Pearl

I've been here in Denver 6 months. And, for those of you who follow this know that I still do not have a church home and it has been quite the excruciating challenge for me. While some people might welcome the opportunity to NOT have to commit somewhere for a while, I have suffered from spiritual dryness unlike ever before due to a lack of regular hanging out with people who love Jesus as much as me. I have wrestled day and night over this for quite a while now, torn between the things I would have to give up if I should commit to one church or another.
Today I reluctantly tried yet another church. I saw it advertised on facebook. The last time I paid attention to something advertised on facebook ended up with me at a Matisyahu concert that blew my mind, so this church had some potential. Facebook has also suggested I become an Ultrasound Technician. How do they know about my obsession with babies?? Anyway, my roommate and I drove the 20 minutes to this brand new church that meets in the Marriot convention center.
I loved it. The pastor's wife has written songs for Hillsong and has performed with Darlene what's-her-face, so needless to say, the worship was astounding-- and not because of the sound quality. Basically, she knows how to lead people into worship. It was the first time in a LONG time I didn't feel like we were all just standing around singing songs. We were worshipping. The message was great, straight out of Colossians. The pastor mentioned that even though they are only a 7 month old church, they are planning on doing a mission trip sometime this year. As a church plant, they support other church plants. Everyone was friendly and welcoming. I talked with the pastor right after service and we just 'got' each other. They are starting up small groups for next month and he was SO excited that I want to be a part of that. He invited me to join them for lunch next Sunday so they can all get to know me.
I am almost too afraid to get too excited about this, but I must say that I felt 'home' from the minute I walked in until the end. I cannot wait for next week and to start getting involved. Ojalá. Vamos a ver. Dios es bueno.

check out www.thepearlchurch.org

Heavenly Remnants that Remind

My camera was stolen recently, so I cannot convey in pictures the subject of my gratitude and heightened inspiration lately: Denver skies at dusk casting surreal light on corners of all conceivable places.
Thank you Father of Lights for not forgetting anything.

Effective. Fervent. Avails.

A couple of days ago I got to visit, in person, with a friend I made two years ago while I was working in the Dominican Republic. He and a buddy of his came down for a month or so right after graduating from med school and just before beginning their residencies. They interned with Students International during our Spring Team season and were incredibly refreshing company for both my roommate Amy and I. I was really sad when they left, but managed to keep in touch with one of them, Ryan, via facebook over the last couple of years. Ryan was just in Denver for 24 hours and squeezed me into his schedule and for this I am incredibly thankful. We wasted no time in catching up and just generally talked non-stop for the two hours we had. He joined the Navy just out of med school and is now working for the Marines as a doctor. He used military language that I am unfamiliar with, but basically he is over an 850 person corps. He is stationed in Okinawa, spent time in Korea and is about to head over to Afghanistan for 7 months before returning to Japan. Among the many exciting and wonderful things we talked about, I asked him what books he was reading. His response was: INSIDE THE REVOLUTION by Joel Rosenburg. I hadn't heard of it. Ryan explained it well, but I'm not going to try and give a summary on a book I haven't read, so here's one I copied off the author's website (www.joelrosenburg.com):

INSIDE THE REVOLUTION
Inside the Revolution takes you inside the winner-take-all battle for the hearts, minds and souls of the people of the Middle East. It includes never-before-seen profiles of the Radicals, the Reformers, and the Revivalists. It explains the implications of each movement and the importance of each leader – not only through the lenses of politics and economics but through the third lens of Scripture as well. Today, wars and revolutions define the modern Middle East, and many believe the worst is yet to come.

The one thing Ryan shared was how Rosenburg addresses very strongly that the war in the Middle East is not only a political war, it's a spiritual war-- a war that was started way back when Ishmael was born to Abraham. Although most Jews and Muslims understand this, and some Christians understand it, it re-ignited the understanding within me when I heard Ryan recount, "The problem is that America is going in to fight a battle, but it's the wrong battle. The Muslims know what the battle is really about." Wow. That shook me for some reason. It shook me because I know in my core that it's true. Unless we are dealing with the true Enemy, we fight in vain. Lives are lost for no purpose. Time, money, power... all of these are wasted in the process of trying to eradicate a physical enemy and trying to bring political reform to a spiritual issue. "For we do not wrestle against flesh and blood, but against principalities, against powers, against the rulers of the darkness of this age, against spiritual hosts of wickedness in the heavenly places. " Ephesians 6:12 As Ryan talked, I felt my spiritual eyes open up and I was able to see all of our troops as spiritual workers and I felt a surge to really be praying at a deeper, yet higher level. My prayer for Ryan, and this is what I spoke to him, is that his spiritual eyes would be opened while he is over in Afghanistan and that God would train him in how to stand and advance within the spiritual battle that is raging over there.

I get so overwhelmed sometimes by all of the prayer needs out there and easily lose my fervor. This week, God corrected me by bringing this Scripture to mind: "The effective, fervent prayer of a righteous man avails much" James 5:16
How is prayer effective? When we pray according to God's will. How do we know God's will? It is clearly stated in many ways throughout Scripture. I have read various books by spiritual teachers I very much respect who often suggest praying only Scripture and asking God to fulfill his promises, His will. We don't need to invent anything in prayer. We don't need to come up with things we think God should do. It's all laid out for us in His Word. Well, how do I know if my prayer is fervent enough? I think we know the difference between praying with conviction, faith and passion and praying out of obligation. I have seen mountains move when I have prayed from a place of desperation and groaning. And, a righteous man, person, is simply someone who is in Christ, the only Righteous One. God calls us righteous who have received the blood sacrifice of Christ as our payment to God for our sin. God hears me and responds because I am Christ's. Does God not hear the cries of everyone? Certainly He does. God searches the hearts and answers prayers of those who do not even know Him, yet, because they are sincerely crying out for help and because He wants all people to come to Him. But those of us who have received the redemption of Christ's blood have a place of partnership with God in prayer. God answers prayers of humanity; God MOVES on the prayers of the righteous.
I have been re-encouraged in the place of prayer after talking with Ryan. I am writing to stir that same fervent desire in the bosom of you who are reading this-- whether you know you have a personal relationship with Christ and the Father or whether you just believe that there is a God and He loves you. If you are one who believes in God, but doesn't get the whole Jesus thing, I invite you to ask. There is a position for you in God's Kingdom that you don't even know about yet that is better than living where you are and still wondering. I asked and made the choice 9 years ago. The difference is like night and day.

Let's pray my friends!

Perplexingness

I am in a state of perplexion that I think I am finally coming to peace with, if one can be at peace with things that are not so cut-and-dried. Perhaps many of you out there are completely comfortable with ambiguity. I know some that thrive in undefined territory, but I have never been one of those people. I still don't like it, but I am learning to accept it.
I am going to a new church.
This has been perplexing to me.
After spending 3 months at Church in the City, a church that I believed God had designed just for me, I realized that I was insanely bored and was having an impossible time making friends. And it wasn't for lack of trying. I have no problem asking people if they want to hang out or what have you, but although I was surrounded by all kinds of different people, it did not include anyone in my peer group. In the past, this has not been important for me, but after spending 2 years in the DR with people my age I realized how needful I really am. So, without any fanfare or goodbyes, I silently left the Messianic-Hispanic-Inner City church and moved on.
The first church I visited was one that is well-known to the underground of Denver. It is held in an old artist's house-- all the walls are painted crazy colors and there is a huge mural of a skull on the wall. People are milling about outside smoking cigarettes, waiting for the service to start. Inside, I would like to say I found all walks of life, but mostly it's the young, white, dred-locked, tatooed and pierced crowd ( I have both tatoos and piercings, so don't get the idea that I'm uppity about this). The church boldly proclaims that their mission is to reach the outcasts of society. My overwhelming sense of the whole night was that they have made themselves a comfy place for people to come hang out, but I didn't see much evidence of transformed lives. I understand that we are all at different stages in our walks with God, but I had to wonder after hearing the pastor use a cuss word 3 times in a 6 minute period, if they were really reaching anyone with the gospel message. When we look like the world, why should the world want to change? I ask that God move in that church and that His Spirit be present, bringing abundant blessing, but it isn't for me.
So, after much thinking (prayer?) I decided to check out a church I had found online when I was researching churches back in October, when I was still in the 'if' stages about coming to Denver. I was drawn to this church's website because it was intelligent, informative, straightforward and obviously made up of college and career-aged folk. It is non-denominational, but founded in Reformist theology. I have not done all my homework regarding the Reformation and all it entails, but I do know that I have not always seen eye-to-eye with some of their doctrine. Which is why I was surprised I was interested in going. Which is why I resisted going. Which is why I'm surprised I'm going now and, so far, am loving it. This is where the perplexion, perplexity, perplexicacity comes in. For the last 4 Sundays, I have heard the meatiest, most solid preaching I have heard since I was at IHOP. I feel like I get to meet Jesus all over again, in deeper ways. This pastor can hold my attention the entire time he's talking and if you were to sit and have lunch with me, I'd be able to recount to you every sermon of his I've heard from start to finish. It's that good. Also, they offer communion EVERY WEEK!!! After going to churches that seem to want to forget about this holy sacrament (save the Cambria Vineyard that at least does it once a month), I am like the deer that pants for the water in a dry and weary land. I can't get enough. I have been so hungry and thirsty for the Word and for communion!! I had no idea!! Jesus meets with me every week and I just cry. I am also surrounded by a bunch of young adults who I have little in common with, but who all love Jesus and who strive to be disciples. After my first Sunday there, I decided to jump into their pre-service, 8 week 'Gospel class' just so I could meet people. This sweet little group had an Easter lunch at one of their homes and I went. Three newly graduated Engineering students, one girl getting her degree in Physical Therapy and me. It felt so random and it was.
I guess my biggest 'struggle' is that I don't feel like I fit into any kind of church community-- at least not one that I have found here. I feel mostly myself and most comfortable when I'm hanging out with the people I've met at the ice rink. None of them are Christians and yet I'd rather hang out with them all week. It's not like I'm ashamed of my love affair with Jesus, it's just that it seems that people who don't know what it's like to have a love affair with Jesus just accept me as I am, whereas the people I'm meeting who want to walk with Jesus and be like him totally don't get me.
I think Jesus felt this tension.
People who know they are sinners and aren't trying to hide that fact are attractive. They are real and fun to hang out with. Jesus hung out with all kinds of people. But, he didn't just hang out. He brought them the gospel message, too. He healed them, loved them, preached to them. So, even though he enjoyed his time with them, He wanted them to be transformed by His love. This is how I feel with all of my ice skating friends and people I meet at work. I accept them as they are, but I don't want them to stay that way. I want them to encounter God's healing love. Jesus also loved hanging out with His disciples and He really wanted them to 'get' Him, but most of the time, they didn't. He expressed both frustration and loneliness over this.
I don't know. Something has changed in me since I've moved to Denver. I want to be able to make sense of it all, but I can't. Can you? Can someone tell me what's going on? Haha.
www.fellowshipdenver.org
Good preaching.

Mid-afternoon break from school

Today the sun poked out and brought some Spring-ish warmth with it. So, instead of going to the gym, I decided to take a stroll downtown, deposit a check and get some food. Yesterday my friend Phillip mentioned that he was going to get a Kosher dog for lunch later on and ever since I had been craving one. Just out front of my bank sat a hot dog vendor. Hassim. He really wanted me to try his chicken kabobs or gyros or humus, but I had a hankering for a dog. So, as he prepared it and topped it with sauerkraut, I asked him where he was from. Israel. Go figure. I got a can of Squirt, pulled up a curb in the sun and devoured the best tasting Polish sausage I've ever had. I love living in a city.

One Wise Virgin Dozes Off

One aspect of the parable of the 10 virgins found in Matthew 25 that has always been a bit surprising to me is the part where all 10 virgins fall asleep while they're waiting for their bridegroom. Actually, there are a lot of aspects of this parable that are surprising and cause me to want to meditate on it more and more. In fact, when you look at the story, the only thing separating the wise and foolish virgins was the amount of oil each woman brought with her. They all heard the call, 'the bridegroom is coming!'. They all responded to that call and went out to meet him. They all lit their oil lamps to light their way. They all fell asleep together while they waited. The only difference is that when they all awoke, only 5 had enough EXTRA oil to keep their lamps burning while they waited for the dashing man to show up. The other five had to leave camp and go buy more oil because the other 5 refused to share. And, they missed the coming of the bridegroom. This causes me to wonder. Is is really important to God that these ladies were able to continue to see through the night? Wasn't the fact that the 'foolish' virgins even came and were still present when they heard the call enough? I mean, 5 other virgins had lit lamps, so surely the whole camp of 10 would be able to see by that light. Did those five foolish virgins have to leave camp, really? Couldn't they have stayed and sat in the dimmer light provided by the other virgins? I'm thinking that I am probably missing a deeper meaning. It's not that I haven't heard plenty of teachings on this parable. More often than not, I have heard it preached that the oil in the lamps symbolizes the Holy Spirit and that those who foster more intimacy with Him won't have lamps that go out. Hmmm. In the parable, it is clear that the wise virgins thought ahead. They planned better. The foolish virgins had what was needed, but it wasn't enough. They didn't foresee having to wait longer. Maybe they were hasty and just didn't think about it at all. When I think about it more, it seems to me that the oil symbolizes waiting. It's not so much the oil (even the five fools had oil), but the thought behind bringing more, the looking ahead to the possibility of delay. The five wise were committed to WATCHING for him; to WAITING for him, no matter how long it took. Just before sharing this parable, Jesus is quoted in Matthew 24:42 saying, "Watch therefore, for you do not know what hour your Lord is coming." The foolish virgins had a desire to meet and see the bridegroom. They had heard about him and knew that they were to go out and meet him. But they didn't have that deeper desire that would cause them to prepare ahead of time to wait. They were not on watch. They were aware, they responded, but they weren't adequately prepared.
Why am I ruminating on this?
Because lately I have felt like a virgin falling asleep as she waits. Lately I have felt like the answers to the cries of my heart aren't coming fast enough and I'm tired of looking, tired of waiting. I am in a spiritual wilderness/desert/dry spot and though I've heard the call, have responded, have packed my things and headed out to meet him, I feel like it's been a long time since I heard the call and feel like maybe he's forgotten about me. Maybe he's just not coming.
I have not been able to put into words what it has been like making such a drastic shift from being a missionary 24/7 to going back to 'normal' American life in a new city. I have written about the wonderful things like discovering joy in ice skating, cool aspects of my new church and how God lead me to my 'normal' job, but I have found it difficult to write about the incredible disappointment I have felt in feeling so alone in this new place. Though I am learning so much at my new church, it has been nearly impossible to build community. If I go to the Messianic services on Saturday mornings, I am blessed to be learning how to pray in Hebrew, but am also the only single person my age in the entire congregation. If I choose to go to regular service on Sunday, I will see a few more people my age, but they are in a sea of hundreds of other people and there is no time for 'meet and greet' before or after service. My church just started up their home groups again for the new year. There is even one for singles. However, all these groups take place on Friday night and I have to work. No one at work would trade shifts with me and I need the money. It's discouraging!!! I even met a good-looking guy my age at the ice rink last week who asked for my phone number and then proceeded to call me and ask if I'd like to join him for dinner. I was ecstatic! Maybe God was going to finally answer my cries for my lifemate! He invited me over, cooked me fresh cod, we had wonderful conversation and HE DOESN'T KNOW JESUS! I was devastated. Here is this wonderful person wanting to get to know me and I can't continue dating him because I know that it would end in misery. I found my heart trying to make excuses, trying to work my way around the fact that we don't share faith in Christ. In my frustration, disappointment, heartbreak, fatigue and loneliness, I am way tempted to just fall asleep to my faith. I am tempted to let the light burn out. I, like the foolish virgins, believe in the Bridegroom. I want to see Him. My soul, however, is fighting to stay awake, to keep on track, to relish in righteousness and holiness and obedience when I feel abandoned, forgotten.
Jesus was tempted in the wilderness. He was tempted by Satan with things that had already been promised to Him by His Father: power, authority, protection. Satan offered an alternative way, a way that seemed more pleasing, easier. But Jesus refused and chose the narrow way. He chose the way of the Cross and received all the promises His Father had made him-- but He received them in freedom and not as a slave. He received them in Life and not chained to Death. And because of His choice, I now have that same freedom and I now have resurrection life. The fulfillment of the promises received have now been transferred to me, if I just believe. However, along with freedom, life and inheritance of the promises, I am faced with the same temptations as Jesus. I am here, in the wilderness, where the Holy Spirit drove me and am being tempted to doubt God's goodness. I am being tempted by Satan with an offering that looks and smells very close to the promise of God over my life, but that comes with the cost of slavery and death. So, will I wait? Will I choose the way of the Cross, die to my own desires for fulfillment and comfort on my own terms, or will I let myself fall asleep; let my oil burn out?

"No temptation has overtaken you except that such as is common to man; but God is faithful, who will not allow you to be tempted beyond what you are able, but with the temptation will also make the way of escape, that you may be able to bear it." 1 Cor. 10:13

I am going to choose the narrow way, the way of escape. I am going to choose to wake myself back up, pack some more oil and WATCH and WAIT for my bridegroom. I am going to wake myself up from this slumber of disappointment and shake off the dust of the night, rub the sleep from my eyes and look hard into eternity with the eyes of faith.

It's For Real

Here are the promised photos of me in my new ice skates, standing on the ice, getting ready to rail my way around the rink. Today, my third day ever ice skating, I made it around the entire rink TWICE WITHOUT EVEN TOUCHING THE RAIL!!! I even had a scary thought of setting a goal to be on a hockey team one day. The thought quickly left my head when I remembered how much I hate to participate in competitive sports. Fun 2-second thought, though.

Anonymous

Well, I've gotten some 'comments' on my blog in the past that were ads from some companies or individuals trying to sell something, which is why I decided to start moderating my comments. Blog Spam. Blam.
Today, I had another 'comment' on a very old blog and the entire thing was in Hebrew. Since I have a mild obsession with Israel and because I just started studying Hebrew, I decided to publish the 'comment', thinking it was from someone I know who knows these things about me. Then, I looked closer. There were URLs included. I decided to copy and paste. Wouldn't you know it, it was an ad. But not just any ad. It was an ad for a hotel/getaway in Tel Aviv Israel. Instead of being bummed that the comment wasn't from a fun friend, I looked at the photo gallery on this website. I read about their amenities. Now I want to go there. Maybe for my honeymoon. I bookmarked the website for future reference. www.kfarbair.com. It's kinda funky/artsy. Awesome BLAM!!!

Twirl-arina. Mmm, not quite yet.

You probably couldn't tell just by looking at me.
Even people who've known me for years may never have been able to guess, ascertain or even intuit. Except my mom, that is, since she has the special God-given powers of 'knowing' me.
The guy I rented the hybrids from probably couldn't tell either.
But, you can ask the ice...

I'M A SKATER!!! I SKATE!! (said in the voice of Bill Murray's character, Bob Wiley, taken from the scene where he's strapped to the mast of the sailboat)

Yes, folks, it's true... after 33 years of living in rink-less, frozen pond-less areas of California, the inner ice skater in me finally emerged today at the Joy Burns Ice Arena at Denver University. I held that railing like it was going out of style as toddlers whizzed past me, carving ice onto my pant cuff. Humiliated? Not even for one second!! After going 'round a few times, I even approached this, pardon the expression, bad-ass hockey chick and asked her for some tips.

"So, today's my first day out here on the ice,' I said cool-ly, 'and, uh, I'm thinkin' I should probably practice falling. So, what do you think is the best way?"
She looked around and then straight into my eyes with an intensity that only people on 'the ice' can really share.
"You know, the trick is, just don't tense up-- JUST DON'T TENSE UP! Man, snowboarders you know? If they don't, like, clench their fists as their falling... they like break their wrists and stuff, like all the time. So, just, if you're gonna fall, just clench your wrists and just go with it, ya know?"
"Yep, okay, just go with it. Okay."

What else do you do with such awesome free advice like that? Continue to skate next to the railing and then grab on for dear life before you have to clench your fist and just 'go with it'!! That's right folks, I didn't fall today, not even once!! I probably will tomorrow, though, if I get up enough chutzpah.

So, I skated for an hour. Most of that time I actually practiced stops, swizzles (which were really more like swoozles since I haven't had any lessons and just read about them on some beginner's site I found off of Google), turns and glides. Half of the time I practiced these things NOT TOUCHING THE RAIL!! I'M AWESOME!!!

So, needless to say, I was on a major high at the end of the public skate sesh. So high, I told my roommate at lunch (consumed a lamb gyro in about 5 seconds flat after that hard core workout), that I needed to go out and buy my own skates RIGHT THEN. She complied, being on the same high herself and needing her own pair of pretty skates, and we drove over to the nearest Play It Again to try some on. They had a perfect pair in my size for a super good price, but Christine wasn't convinced, so we went on over to the 'best' skating shop in Denver, where they had no skates in stock, but gave us a complete education on each brand and type of skate, blade, etc and tried to get us to order their least expensive which prices skyrocketed out of our budgets. So, armed with lots o' information, we drove right on back to the first store and bought us the cheapo ones. Good brand, lesser model. Maybe in a couple of weeks when I'm doing spins and flips I'll invest in the more expensive ones, but, for now, my beautiful, new white Jackson Glaciers are all I need to get out there, clench my fists and 'go with it'!

I totally took photos, too, of me on the ice-- well, one photo was taken of my by Christine-- and of my new skates, but I can't find the cord that connects my camera to my computer for uploading. BOOOOOO!! You'll just have to take my word for it: I'm a skater.

Would you like foam on that?

They liked me.

www.tatteredcover.com

Snapshot

In prayer last week, I got a snapshot impression of burgundy painted walls, telescope lights and a glass bakery case. A coffee shop? Probably. A job, perhaps? Maybe. Days later, on a walk downtown with my fantastic friend and housemate Christine, I mentioned the image I'd gotten.
"I think I'm supposed to look for work in a coffee shop with burgundy painted walls and telescope lights."
"Okay, let's look for it."

I love people who believe God like I do.

We were actually walking around looking for good places for her to put in an application, but every time we passed by a Starbucks, a Peets, an Ink!, we peeked through the windows at the wall color. Lots of sage green. One with bright red and white. No burgundy. I let it go.

Days later I was having breakfast with my incredibly, artistically- talented friend Cami. I mentioned the prayer impression I'd gotten to her. She smiled and said something like, "Well, God can do anything!" Ah, how true. We quickly moved onto other more fascinating subjects and then it was time to do more hanging out elsewhere. She suggested the Tattered Cover bookstore . I didn't know that the Tattered Cover had a bookstore in Highlands Ranch where she lived-- about a half hour drive from where I live in Denver. The Tattered Cover is legendary here. It's one of Denver's must-sees. I was up for a peruse.

I was busy talking about something probably unimportant when we walked through the front door, so I wasn't paying attention to my surroundings much, only to notice that Cami kept walking toward this little cafe section and I kept wondering why since we'd downed more coffee than either of us needed at the breakfast place. Then, she stopped and just stood there, looking forward. It took me a bit and then I shut up and looked ahead, too. Well, wouldn't you know it. Burgundy walls. Telescope lights. Glass bakery case.

She nudged me forward. Feeling a little foolish, I walked up to the counter and addressed the down-to-earth-looking woman standing behind it.
"I just have a question. Do the other Tattered Covers in Denver have coffee shops in them as well?"
"Yes they do."
"And, are they owned by Tattered Cover or are they a separate entity?"
"Are you looking for a job?"
"Actually, yes, yes I am."
"Stay right here."

I stood right there and shot Cami a quizzical look. She shot one back and pantomimed that she'd be reading some magazines in one of the overstuffed chairs in the corner. Shortly after, a thin, grey, curly-headed man strolled out from behind an 'employees only' type door.
"You looking for a job?"
"Actually, yes, yes I am."
"What area do you want to work? Downtown? Colfax? Here?"
"No, either downtown or Colfax-- I live in Lodo, so those are closer."
"Oh good, 'cause we're hiring for the Lodo store and are closing out applications today. You have time to fill out an app?"
"Um, yep."

It took me a while to fill it all out. They ask a lot of interesting questions like: what 3 sections of the bookstore would you be found in? (religion, travel, art) and, what makes a great coffee shop? (friendly, helpful staff; consistency and quality of beverage and food; cleanliness; good music; comfy places to sit...)

I completed it with gusto and went to hand it back to Wayne who then asked if he could give me a preliminary interview. I had to get through Wayne first. He liked me. He passed along my app to personnel. They liked my app. I got a call from Chuck. I had an interview with him and Jackie this morning. I liked them.

I'll let you know if they liked me back in my next inspiring blog...

By the way, thanks to 'anonymous' for leaving me that encouraging note on my last entry. It's bugging me that I don't know who you are. Annoying. Intriguing...

Every Tribe, Tongue and Nation

I've been meaning to get to the Spanish service that Church in the City has on Sunday afternoons, but until today hadn't made the effort. After being sick all week, I had a slow morning and so decided to skip English service and go Español this afternoon. It felt like coming home.
The first person I met was Brian. Brian is an older gentlemen who has lived in Denver since '57. He was a little disheveled and, well, he is white, like me. He refused to speak to me in English and so we had some Spanish chit chat before the service. He has been teaching himself Spanish over the years and is pretty good-- about where I was after 6 months in the DR. When we walked into the sanctuary, he introduced me to the Pastors and then to a lovely older Mexican woman named Marguerita. He took off and so I sat with her and listened to her talk and talk and talk about the Lord. I could not stop smiling. I don't know what it is about Latin Christian culture, but they LOVE to talk about the Lord and about faith and about trials and how God uses the trials to strengthen them. I am always humbled and built up after listening. And, also following Latin culture, everyone else who walked in the building (either before or after the service) came up to say hello, shake hands, exchange names and a 'Dios le bendiga, hermana' (God bless you, sister). The pastor never has to encourage Latinos to greet others-- it's ingrained in them. Also, If you don't know this, all Spanish worship songs are passionate and all about the Gospel. They are always completely focused on Jesus and His worthiness, not on ourselves. Because of this, they lead one into a place of worship of the Holy and I always feel the presence of God when I am singing Spanish worship. The prayers, too, are different than the prayers we pray in English. They always focus on His power, His majesty, His mercy, His blood. By the time the preaching is about to start, I am already filled with the Spirit. Today was no different.
The Chilean pastor had a burden to share his and his wife's testimony of their conversions, faith walk and life as missionaries (Brazil, Honduras, Equatorial Guinea and now Denver). He had his wife sit up next to him and they tandem-shared their mutual journey. With tears consistently leaking out the corners of my eyes, I listened for over an hour to story after story of times when they felt that God had abandoned them and then, after prayer, how God miraculously came through. With tears consistently leaking out of the corners of their eyes, they implored us to not forget the mercies of God, to not forsake praying for His promises to come to pass, to not become weary in well-doing and to pray always, in all circumstances, believing.
I needed to hear that today. Big time. I thought a lot about my call to nations and about how God has not removed that call from my life, even though I am here in Denver. In fact, downstairs, just below us, as we were having church in Spanish, there was another service going on in Indonesian. I could not help but reflect on my time in Indonesia 6 years ago and how just being there for two months made me feel connected to the people worshipping downstairs. I thought about how excited I am to start Hebrew classes at this same church in January and I wondered at God's excellent craftsmanship in bringing me to a place that has an Indonesian congregation, a Messianic congregation and a Hispanic congregation. In just one building I see God's thread in my life and marvel.
After service, I walked outside and met a young man coming out of the Indonesian service. He is Chinese, speaks little English and sometimes attends the Indonesian service with his wife who is Chinese Indonesian. He gets bored, he says, because he doesn't understand Indonesian. He and his wife, Macy, are fairly new to Denver as well and are looking for friends. I didn't get to meet her since the Indonesian service was still going on, but I plan on spending some time getting to know them in the future. What an awesome day. That's all I can say.

Never Alone

In just two days we celebrate Christmas. Before I chose to believe that Jesus was the only way to the Father, the only way to freedom and salvation and redemption and restored relationship, Christmas was a lovely time of homemade cookies, handmade stockings hanging over the fireplace, our traditional Christmas tape (now burned onto a CD) that my dad mixed many years ago, German Apple Pancakes in the morning, ripping open of presents. Come on, it's the best time of year. It's the best day. After I decided to believe in Jesus and call myself a Christian, Christmas actually continued just about the same, though I now recognize the gospel truth being sung out through many carols (how could I have missed that message all those years?) I can't say that I spend lots of time preparing my heart during advent or that I meditate for hours on his birth and what His coming to earth really means. I am one of those who LOVES the American tradition of Christmas and all that it entails. Neighbors exchanging baked goodies, Charlie Brown's Christmas, all the colorful wrapping paper and bows... I LOVE it!
This year, however, is a little different for me.
I'm not at home. It's my first Christmas without my family. I've never missed a Christmas. I thought that I would be okay with it. I mean, we celebrated it early since my brother and his fiancé, Stacy, were going to spend Christmas in Connecticut with her family and my little nephew, Gabriel, was going to spend it with his mom. And, I was leaving for Colorado. It all seemed okay. Then I got here and found out that Gabriel had to leave his mom's and come back to his daddy's. They couldn't afford to buy him a ticket to Connecticut, too, so they had to postpone their trip. They're all there, right now, at my mom's having Christmas parties, baking cookies, singing carols, hanging out the stockings, wrapping presents. And here I am, in a new city, watching the snow fall down, sick with a cold and spending endless hours with my roommate's Siamese cat Puss Puss Elvis while my roommate is at work. I'm trying not to feel sorry for myself, but it's not working.
This is when it hits me that maybe this Christmas can really be about Jesus. Even though I'm sort of at odds with Him at the moment as I question His motives for moving me out here, I can't help but feel inexplicably drawn to be nearer to Him than ever before. Loneliness has a way of doing that. As I watch out the window at the snow falling, I also catch glimpses of homeless men making their lonely tracks along broken sidewalks. I don't have any words of wisdom to write. I just feel sad as I watch them. I shoot up a prayer of thanks to God that I can be inside with a heater on on such a cold day. I think about God and kind of end there. I don't have all the answers. But, because Jesus came to earth, I can have Him. Not in the flesh. Not to be able to hug and smile at and crack a joke with, but I can have His presence because He promised it to anyone who would believe in Him. And, that warm relationship is just about all I want right now. I want that sense of family. The homeless men probably want that, too. Jesus was born all those years ago just so we wouldn't have to be completely alone, whether we have people around or not.
So, this Christmas, it's just me and Jesus. And Puss Puss Elvis.