I forget to post. I'm not sure I have anyone to post to. I'm not even sure why I'm posting now. But I am after 2 months of suspense for my devoted fans. . . ha. Who am I kidding? :)

I have a job now. I'm working at the American Red Cross. It's great so far! Lots of opportunities to reach out and help people beyond my little bubbled world; which I am still very much a prisoner of in some respects - A creator and willing subject in others. Is there a difference between being a prisoner OF and a prisoner TO something? Is one based on fault of the prisoner and the other the fault of the captor? Random question.

I have learned quite a lot in the past 2 months. . . about trust and respect and the cracks where faith alone cannot keep the flesh from leaking through. Can you end a sentence with a preposition? That is a lesson I have learned but cannot remember; Very much like me, I admit. I tend to be forgetful.

Is there a reason people spill their hurt onto others?

I haven't decided if I want to know that answer yet.

How Christians. . . or so called Christians. . . think you are judgmental if you are against gay marriage. So, I am judging if I say sin is wrong? You're dang right I'm judging then! That is what Christians are called to do. . . judge between sin and truth.

Since when is it my God appointed politically correct duty to pat a homosexual on the back and say, "hey good luck with the sin thing man. I gotta hand it to ya; you've got the right and the boldness it takes to get by in America!" Yeah. In america is right. . . we can handle this stuff here. We like sin.

I, on the other hand, want nothing to do with this wicked form of Christianity americans have polluted the precious name of God with. Read 2 Timothy 3 and take it deep to heart.

I plan on accepting the sinner, but not the sin. And if you have an issue with that, you can take it up with God on Judgment Day; because it's not by my standards that these things are measured.

Better check your 'religion' again I think.

I'm a rich woman.

Rich beyond anything I ever could have earned. . .



Praise YHWH! I am truly blessed :-)

It must mean something to get to that point where all you see is the mask. I've looked in the mirror to view my true reflection. . . it's not what I'd hoped to see. I'm not sure what I expected. Honestly, though, I didn't intend to look in the mirror at all. It jumped in front of me again today, only this time I didn't move fast enough. I may have hurt it in the process of viewing my appearance. I don't always have the prettiest of complexions underneath. I'm outgrowing this particular facade I think. Too much was showing through. . . hence the mirror's pain.

It's slightly devistating. I love it too much to cause a crack. I'm blessed enough to have something to see my reflection in, and that's an understatement. If only for the mirror's sake at this point, I have to do something about this.

My soul comes alive with certain music. Orchestra, to be precise. But just the strings... quite possibly the theme songs. There is an indescribable intimacy between the bow and string that plays my heart's melodies with such grace. The weight of my daily struggles melt in the midst of it, and I find my Savior there, whispering to me behind closed eyes.

I imagine the most delicately powerful interpretations when I listen... a dancer moving fluidly to the emotions behind each compositioned chord; my emotions, as if I were influencing each bow position. I feel as if I am creating every inflection of movement.

It builds me.


And somehow I don't think much of what makes me come alive.

My family is here, spread throughout the fingerlakes, but further away then I would like sometimes. I've come to understand how families work over the past near 4 months of beginning one with my husband. They're here for me if I ever need them. They're always loving, always accepting. They love me for who I am. That's foreign. . . and incredible. Two people in this ugly world know my deepest secrets, and haven't turned their backs on me for them. I don't recognize that as often as I should when my carnal nature feels hurt by whatever trial I have mishandled.

Then there is my gene pool. It's probably not entirely right how much I want to "come out of them and be seperate". I tend to avoid the things that scrape at my heart so painfully. Wicked words are more than words. That's a concept too difficult to practice, it seems. At times I think I would enjoy a hearing impairment. Then again, there is little to no such thing as a complete lack of communication possibilities. Perhaps I simply need a transplant.

Then again, isn't that what I've been given? It's hard to explain or understand why we've let ourselves fall so far away from our original purpose.

Lord, keep me from striving.

Who is that God we all imagine as a brown eyed blond man with nothing but a submissive stare into heaven?

I've realized tonight that my God is a warrior... a God of dangerous adventure and risk who will grasp onto my wrist and pull me out of the mirey clay. Yes, He is a gentleman, a servant and loving man. But He is fierce, His gaze like fire, His voice like the rushing wind. Wild, untamed by man, bearing the pain of nails driven through His flesh to break the bonds of satan over my life. He walked through hell 3 days, He sends His children into battle, He appeared to Moses in blazing wilderness, He speaks the storms into submission. Imagine the terror of His enemies in the last days as He brings all things beneath His feet. He will crush the head of the serpent as He is even now, but once and for all.

A man that will fight for you, a God that would die for you... sacrifice... sacrifice is bold and risky and difficult and He invented it. Read Job and listen to Him tell us about the intricately designed and WILD things He created. He is a God of passion. . .

And we sit on the sidewalk afraid to cross the street until someone is there to hold our hands or stop traffic. How many times do we dip our toes into the water to see if it is colder than our skin desires to feel... JUMP IN!!! It's exhilerating!!

There are wet leaves pasted all over the front half of my driveway. They are practically unrakable...simply lying there, faces down, defeated. It was their season to die; the old orange things. They served their purpose to give me hope for warmer weather in the spring, to give me shade from the scalding sun in summer. They've blossomed into full beauty, captivating me with the vibracy of their intended purpose. And now they wilt and float, malnourished, to the ground.

Life has seasons, as I'm learning very intimately. Blessings, miracles, anguish, trials...

But the Lord will bring all things to completion whether it is painful or not. There comes a time when we must simply plant ourselves deep and endure. Nothing will ever come my way that Christ does not strengthen me to handle (as a beloved Brother of mine reminded me last night). His love endures forever. When I think of enduring, I'm convinced that something cannot be endured unless it has ups and downs, a mountainous terrain to press onward in spite of. If it were always an easy thing, there would be no need to persist. What would there be to endure through? The Lord loves me throughout, regardless, in addition to...up and down the rolling sea of the storms in my own life, His love endures.

And these leafy trials? They, too, shall pass. It's to my benefit now to focus on their purpose.

it all begins to fade








will it ever be easy?

Yesterday at church Pierre retold the story of the prostitute who washed Jesus' feet. I've never heard it told that way before. I tend to read the Gospels and not put much heart into them. I learn what the Lord opens my eyes to learn, but I don't find much passion in them. . . that's really only my own heart needing to be tilled.

He gave us the background of the times. . .the practices of foot washing and anointing honored guests at banquests, the kissing on the cheeks in greeting... and how none were done to Christ by Simon His host when He entered. Then there came the woman who, having her sin revealed at some previous and not so distantly past point, weeping and anoiting her Lord's feet with her life's work washed them with her repenting tears. . . such a taboo for an uninvited quest let alone a woman like this. And Jesus loved her for it.

It has become, to me, one of the most beautiful recounts of Truth I have ever heard. My heart felt entirely ripped open. I love when God rearranges my compsition.

I am feeling led in certain directions spiritually since then. . . a vague answer emerging to all of my questions of where I am headed and who I am supposed to be. It will be a while before I entirely understand or at least grasp on to it all. But whatever hinders me from waiting patiently will not stand before the presence of my God any longer. Sometimes to simply be silent is my greatest sacrifice.