To Love Another Person is to See the Face of God

     Okay, can I get vulnerable for a moment? Well ready or not, here it comes. I miss him. A lot. Sometimes to the point of tears. Sometimes to the point of questioning God. Why are we so far apart? Why would you try to hurt me right after my heart has been healed? Why can't we have a normal love? One where I see him everyday so he can hold me when my heart is breaking or just see me smiling. I stare into the fog most mornings, feeling alone and despondent. I am a strong person, or at least I try to be, and seldom will you see me break, seldom will you see the tears fall. But sometimes they do. The scary thing is that it's only been two weeks. We have four, long, hard years ahead of us. Years that I know we can overcome, but it is going to be a struggle and an arduous fight. Nonetheless, it is a fight I am willing to engage in.
 
     Now to you, to the one I love, you are worth this waiting. You are worth this pain and heartache, because on the better days, the days when I am filled with unquenchable hope, all I see is your smile, that gleam in your eyes, the way you look at me- and all I hear is your laughter, your teasing words, your voice... Some things in this life were meant to be. I believe that you and I are one of those things. We have both made mistakes, we have both wounded and been wounded. I will not pretend that this future we have ahead of us is going to be easy. It is going to be tumultuous, difficult, and at times it may seem hopeless... but I vow to you now, to never give up, to never walk away, to never search for the easy way out. We must fight for one another, and for this rare love that few people ever truly possess. This world we live in is no fairy-tale. It is a cruel slab of fate ruled by a darkness that seeks to ruin all things pure and lovely. We must be willing to engage the darkness by staying true. True to one another and true to love. Not just the love that we share, but the love that must be shown to the rest of this ailing world. I can not wait to travel the world with you, to see the sights of exotic places, to taste of the freedom that only travel can buy, but most of all, I can not wait to love other people with you. To touch the hearts of the hurting and broken- the ones everyone else in this world has given up on, and we will only be able to do that because we never gave up on each other. This love is bigger than us, it is bigger than the feelings I get thinking about you, bigger than the way I feel when we touch, when we kiss... This is about reflecting the love that God has for every creature of His creation. We have been tasked with representing Him- no simple undertaking- and in order to do that, we must start now. I am committed to you because I love you, and more importantly because I love God.

     So. This pain, this heartache, and these next four years- hard as they will be- pale in comparison to the eternity of God's love. I love you.

“To love another person is to see the face of God.”  ― Victor Hugo

My Tortured Soul

      There is a darkness in me. It radiates from somewhere within my soul. This darkness unleashes itself at times when I least expect it. Today it consumed me.

     My mind has been far away. It has been in Africa, in the jungles and in the plains- in the places that I know I need to be, but am not. The truth is, I am not content here in America, within the safety of society. I am not content with my day to day existence- waking up beneath warm blankets, coffee shop visitations, familiar faces... even my beloved rock climbing has become something predictable. I am weary of these things not because I am spoiled or turned off by them... I am weary because I know I have been called to greater things.

      I have never been a patient person. It is one of my many faults. When I want something, I tend to want it right away, or if I want something done then I usually do it right then. So for me to desire Africa right here and now, and not be able to go there, not be able to have it within my grasp... that does something to me. It drives at me like a knife. I feel as though my dreams are hanging by a string from a stick, and each time I reach out to grasp them, each time I come close to wrapping my fingers around them, they are yanked away, further from my reach. This constant pull at my heart drags me down into murky depths, into that place in my soul that is dark, and I fold within myself, not allowing anyone else in. I begin to convince myself that perhaps I am meant to walk this life alone, perhaps I am destined to an existence of solitude- the very thing I dread. The truth is that I do love to be alone sometimes. There is nothing like taking a hike in the woods or a backpack trip by yourself, and getting lost (so to speak) with no one there but yourself and God. Some days I need that, but most days I crave the company of another soul. Someone who can understand me and understand the destiny I have been given.

     For as long as I can remember, the darkness has been there. When I was young it came and went, resulting in small bouts of sadness here and there, but was always accompanied by the knowledge that within a short time it would pass. In high school, these "bouts" escalated into great periods of darkness. Some days I would sit, staring at a wall or at some other object, lost in the gray fog within my head. I would pass entire days like this- non-responsive, non enthusiastic... smiling was hard enough, so to feel happiness? That was out of the question. And over time people have mistaken my darkness for a lack of affection towards them, a lack of commitment... this could not be further from the truth, and though it kills me inside that they might think that, it is like I am a slave to the darkness, and I can not reassure them, I can not stop those hurtful words from being formed. Perhaps one of the most difficult things about dealing with the darkness is knowing when it will strike. As I said, today my mind was afflicted with thoughts of Africa, with worries about how I will return, and when it will be. I climbed for several hours, and the worries were forgotten, pushed away, tossed into the crevasses of my mind. As I was driving home, it hit me, as if I had been involved in a collision. It worked its foul, wraithful tendrils into my mind and began almost immediately to spread like some terminal disease. I didn't try to fight it, because I knew how hopeless a cause that was. So I let it take control, let it govern my thoughts, my actions, my heart... I let it hurt people I love. 

    

      This is not depression, though sometimes it seems like it. What I believe this darkness is, is a ploy by the devil to keep me off the path that I was destined to follow. It is Satan's attempt at ruining the future God has for me- a future that will rescue people from the clutches of hell itself. A future that will see people freed. Tonight I received news about two new opportunities in Africa, one in Sudan and the other in Congo. I have great connections concerning both, and I am allowing myself to feel hopeful yet again. Nay, God is giving me hope. Walking back to my cottage tonight, it dawned on me how quickly God can turn a situation around. He is so powerful and so in control. He governs my destiny, and He will see it through. It has been promised! God has been formulating the plot to my life story since the beginning of time. Despite the fact that every day I make mistakes- dumb ones at that- I am gaining such a deep insight into the heart of God through them. My darkness is not something to fear, but rather something to hate, something to combat. I am a tortured soul... this much is clear, but like all things I believe God has a purpose for it. My real test will be waiting to see what that purpose is. 

The Opening and Closing of Doors

       Why is it so difficult to help? I have been waiting for four years to get back to Africa, or anywhere in the world actually, and too many times I have been denied the opportunity. It's true that a few of those times were due to my own stupidity, but honestly, why is it so hard for someone who has a heart so willing to help others, to sacrifice for others, to give of my whole life to them? From the time I was young, I believed there was something different about me, something great. I read fantasies as a child and reveled in their tales of great adventure and of those heroes and heroines of whom fate had blessed so abundantly. I believed that was myself. As time passed on, and I had not yet been called to some daring adventure or promised destiny, I began to despair. Perhaps I had been wrong. Perhaps my childish ways had tricked my mind into believing I was something special. Too many classroom sessions consisted of a droning teacher and my reckless imagination- warring against one another, each struggling for the upper hand. But it has always been in my head to win. I used to imagine outrageous scenarios- gunmen taking control of the school, how would I stop them, and who would I trust to help me? A raging fire consuming the classroom, how would I get the rest of my peers to safety? I would be a liar to say that I still don't imagine such things. Only now they happen on a much grander scale. I imagine myself in Sudan, working as an investigative journalist for the U.S. When I am caught in a nasty bout of crossfire, will I just cower and hide? Turn back and seek cover in the comforts of the U.S. embassy? Or will I continue on, knowing full well that my honor rests on this choice. That the lives of thousands of innocent South Sudanese children may cling to this decision.

      One day I realized that the destiny I always thought I had as a child, was not fabricated by my imagination. It is very much real. Now I see it as a calling, THE calling that God placed on me. I have no problem saying that I will do great things in this life. That may sound cocky or bold, but the life I intend to lead calls for boldness. The things I do now call for boldness. Climbing 400 foot desert towers or scaling 700 foot rock faces calls for a sort of boldness. And that is why I know God has chosen me to do great things. Why? Because it is through Him I am going to do them. The most difficult part of this has been not knowing how to do the things that God is calling me to do. Will I go back to Africa? Yes. Will I help free people from physical and spiritual bonds? Yes. Am I willing to stare death in the face and not shirk away or cower? YES. It's not the danger that I have a hard time with or the knowledge of a hard life filled with things that I will see that will forever mar my mind... it's the waiting that is the most difficult. Trusting God to open the door that He has planned, instead of constantly trying to open my own. Up until a few years ago I decided I wanted to be alone, I wanted no part of marriage, I wanted no man in my life to help me (or hinder me as I saw it), I simply wanted to do everything on my own. I have changed my mind and my outlook on that issue. I see the prospect of marriage as a beautiful thing. It is about companionship and not slavery as I had called it so many times. Even though I reconciled my dispute with men, I've realized I have not reconciled with God. I still stiffen when He tries to open a door, tune Him out when He compliments me, and I find myself running when He tell me that He loves me. No good relationship can work without trust, so why do I find myself thinking that mine with God will work when so often I refuse to trust Him? He is the author of my story, the creator even. He has it all planned out, and all I have to do is trust in His timing and keep my spirit and heart willing. Yes, I am confident that I will do great things in this life, I will save people, and I will change people, He has told me these things. For now, the greatest thing I can do is trust His timing.

For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the Lord, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future. -Jeremiah 29:11

I am Not British, But I am A Writer...

     Some days I stare at a blank sheet of paper and words flow from my mind like water from an emancipated dam. Other days, the creative outputs of my mind seem to be stopped up like a drain. It is times like these that frustrate me to no end. Writing comes as naturally to me as breathing, but everyone forgets to breathe now and then. I imagine that there is, in the caverns of my mind, two warring armies- each trying to lay claim to the stronghold village labeled "creativity." Whenever one side takes control of this unfettered land, production ceases, daily patterns become irregular, and cells are killed. The heads of the armies, those astute generals versed in every manner of warfare tactic known to man, then take it upon themselves, to storm the stronghold, lay waste to its devices, and sit fat and mirthful on the spoils of their plunder. Instead of taking it upon themselves to utilize the village and all its resources, these men pleasure themselves in the ordinary, in the dull nothingness that makes up their fruitless existence.
   
     This definition, a bit dramatic and perhaps verging slightly into the realm of the insane, is product of my innermost being. After all, I was conceived and birthed in the realm of the insane. My childhood, truth be told, consisted of fantasies- great battles waged on playgrounds and rice paddies, kidnappings and ransomings, the ship wrecks of great monoliths, headless creatures in the night, and the ever lingering notion that adventure lay just beyond the next curve in the road. My poor cousins and brother were subjects to my madness, and often found themselves serving as my skeptical knights or hapless steeds. We galavanted all over the California country sides, rapiers brandished high and aspirations matching the blazing sun. In school I was the girl who read everything. In the mornings, when eating breakfast, if I had nothing to read, if there was no book or literature before me, the cereal box was read. I had every word memorized on the Cheerios before the first week was over. In school my favorite subject was history. I passed every test with flying colors, and almost always procured the highest score. Recess was another amalgamation of my aberrant imagination. It is no wonder that so many of my "friends" stayed clear of me and my musings. They foresaw, within me, something not akin to them, something void of the normality so reigned in by society. Even at ten years of age they could see that I was cut from a different mould, a mould that begged an audience with the fantastical. After school I was shuttled home- the breeding grounds of my wild mind- and it is there that I would romp about the yards, shouting and fighting with phantasmal foes. I could also be found in one of the dozens of gardens, tending to the plants that I cherished and nurtured as my own. Even in high school I held a certain fervor for gardening. There was one scenario in particular I liked to enact whilst administering to the ground. I was a young, English girl captured by an Indian tribe and held captive deep within the jungles of wherever I happened to think of them at the time. I had been on safari with my parents and brothers, when we were ambushed. They were killed, but I was spared for the curious reasoning that I had seed packets on my person. This tribe was starving- their crops were failing terribly- and I was believed to be their savior. The plot was thickened every day, and when last I remember, I had fallen deeply in love with one of the young men but our love was put to test at the news of my impending execution for a continued decline in crop production. Yes, this is just one of the stories that I have yet to write. I used to think that there would be no way for me to channel these fantastic thoughts as an adult. I had this horrible fear that one day they would simply slip away, leaving me "normal." The very word makes me shudder. It was not until I wrote my first poem at age thirteen that I knew I could never be normal. People who are called to the extraordinary can never be ordinary. It's simply not possible. And to prove just how "not normal" I am, this entire post was written because of a block within my brain, and I have been writing this with a British accent for the entirety of the post. I'm not British, but I am a writer of the unseen and the abnormal.

“We’re past the age of heroes and hero kings. … Most of our lives are basically mundane and dull, and it’s up to the writer to find ways to make them interesting.”
—John Updike

“Who wants to become a writer? And why? Because it’s the answer to everything. … It’s the streaming reason for living. To note, to pin down, to build up, to create, to be astonished at nothing, to cherish the oddities, to let nothing go down the drain, to make something, to make a great flower out of life, even if it’s a cactus.”
—Enid Bagnold

Why, a life without love is no life at all

   
         It is currently 11:46 pm and I am wide awake. It's turning colder in Washington, the leaves are beginning to brown and turn into vibrant oranges, reds, and yellows. There are pumpkins lining doorways, walkways, and business entrances, and in some yards, the Halloween decorations are in full display, still covered in a thick layer of dust from their days in storage. The air holds a suppressed excitemement, a promise of new things to come... and I am ready. At least I hope I am. As exciting as this season is, I am feeling some apprehension towards it. I have fallen for someone, quite deeply in fact, so that I know this attraction I have for him is more than just infatuation. It is something real, something very nearly tangible. This man completes me in a way no one else has ever attempted before. He knows me inside and out, understands me in the most simple of ways, and makes me smile like not another soul on this earth can do. I have been afraid, truth be told, because I am wary of allowing my heart to open up again when it was shattered so horribly not very long ago. I have been asking myself, drilling questions into my own brain... is this real? Are these feelings merely product of loneliness? Or emptiness? Of hopelessness? For a long time I convinced myself they must be. How could I have moved on so quickly? How could I have found a man in whom my heart delights this abundantly? So I simply forced myself to imagine life without him. The product of these musings? I lost my breath. I was literally left breathless by the thought. Here I have found someone who has had such a profound impact on my soul, that he can steal the very breath from my chest without ever knowing. His affections for me are the same. We feel perfectly fit for one another, and I can not help but find it beautiful. When I think of him, I picture a future of travel, of adventure and intrigue, of foreign lands rife with intoxicating beauty and danger. I see hazy Autumn mornings, frost lining the fallen leaves. I see gentle snows blanketing rolling hills and frozen clouds of breath. I see great mountains, with cliffs so steep that your neck is craned in a grotesque manner, just trying to catch a glimpse of their ends. I see stolen kisses in moonlit gardens, canoe rides down raging rivers, muddied boots and sweat caked foreheads from the strain of an arduous hike. I see children with big eyes and open hands leading us through rural villages, singing in their foreign tongues. I see horses flying over hilly terrain, heaving sides and salty skin. I see oceans and forests, castles and cottages, sheer cliffs and desert valleys, meadows teeming with deer and wildflowers, wastelands riddled with charred remains, swamps and rivers, lakes and streams, clouds and sunshine, storms and lightning. And through it all, I see his face.

         Come Monday morning he'll be gone. This man, this being who has captured my soul is also a Marine, bound to the country that birthed him. Four years his life will belong to the flag, four years he will sacrifice, and four years he will be parted from me. At night I lie awake and imagine, horrible things, scenarios that leave him hurt or worse. And my heart breaks, and tears prick against my eyes, and again I am left breathless- afraid to move, afraid to breathe. There are few things in this life that scare me, but the thought of his journey is one. I am so proud, so inexplicably grateful for what he is about to do. Still, the fear festers in my mind like a putrid corpse, and I am left suddenly feeling terrified and alone, stricken by dismay. But deep within, somewhere in that place between my heart and my brain, I know that God is going to protect and keep him like only He can do. My worries, great as they are, are mere phantoms in comparison for what God has in store for his life. This man will change nations, I foretell, and I am so privileged to be a part of his destined life.

And now an excerpt from a favored song of ours:

Never knew I could feel like this, Like I've never seen the sky before, Want to vanish inside your kiss, Every day I love you more and more, Listen to my heart, can you hear it sing? Telling me to give you everything, Seasons may change, winter to spring, But I love you until the end of time. 

And you, when you read this, know my faithfulness, know how my very heart beats, and know that I will wait, though hell should bar the way. 

Writing, a Rose Flavored Coffee, and the Return of Pumpkins

     
         Blank pages thrill me, send a chill down my pictorial spine. I am enthralled by the words hidden there, the sentences, letters, phrases just waiting to illuminate themselves on the crisp, white pages. There is a mystery, a monster even, hidden with the margins of every journal, of every three ringed notebook, every Word document, every piece of parchment that has ever been devised. These mysteries are longing to be solved, these monsters awaiting their escape, waiting to be unleashed on the world of the ordinary where they become masters of chaos and inception. There is a beauty in the fluctuation of words from the mouth, and an even greater allurement when they come from the pen. It is this process of creating something out of nothing that captivates my mind and sends it free falling into a vast space where only words exist. Words and pictures. When I am writing a book, I first picture each scene in my head and then the words follow suit, like a proverbial vomit. My mind heaves out each word, very much like a stomach during flu season. But I love it. It is an incurable malady- if it can be called such. Perhaps malady is not the correct word. A blessing? A privilege? I find it ironic that there are no adequate words to describe writing. Ahh wait, I believe I have captured its essence. Adventure. Writing is an adventure, one in which I can write my own fate, my own destiny... but it is also a mystery. Enough of this talk, I could go on for a century about the effects writing has on me. But I suppose that could become quite dull.

      Yesterday I took a ferry to Vashon island. Now that sounds so quaint to me. Just the image in my head is one of rustic perfection. But of course, ferries these days are far from rustic. Or perfect. They are noisy, crowded, dirty things... but still I become so excited when I am on one. When the vessel first begins its crossing and pushes off deep into the waters of the sound, my heart beats faster and my mind tricks itself into believing that an adventure is close at hand. In any case, yesterday I took the ferry to Vashon island to watch my special gentleman's brother compete in a cross country meet. Vashon island is a quaint, little hovel of a town (slightly larger than a hovel but I do enjoy that word so I used it) no longer than ten miles in length. It is home to festivals, aquatic life, and a darling little coffee shop/ tea store called the Vashon Island Coffee Roasterie. I must admit that coffee has been on my mind as of late. The change in the weather has ensured this, as has the vibrant colors of Autumn that are beginning to peek out from beneath summer's cover. Normally I pay a visit to Starbucks for the infamous pumpkin spice latte, but the break we had between events did not permit an extensive search of the island, so we stopped in at said roasterie. This was no issue in my mind, since I am a vintage soul and I do love to visit local shops, especially shops as quaint as this one promised to be. Upon entrance, my nose was assailed by the smell of teas. (Assailed being meant in the most pleasant way possible). There were shelves upon shelves stacked high with glass jars filled with loose leaf tea with exotic names such as "African Green Leaf Tea." There was also, to my keen delight, an assortment of gluten free items. I settled upon a wheat less brownie made with local honey and walnuts. It looked simply delectable. Upon selecting my beverage, I chose to get a "rose mocha." I had to ask the barista what exactly a rose mocha was and she answered me in a matter of fact sort of tone that it was a mocha flavored with rose syrup. Well my adventurous, antiquated spirit just couldn't refuse so five minutes later I was sipping on the best cup of coffee I had ever tasted in my life. In all honesty, my taste-buds have yet to fully recover. It was just one of those, fun, little moments when you are so happy to be alive. It is true, I would rather have been somewhere in the deep jungles of Africa fighting off some tribe of war lords, rescuing children, or scaling the peaks of some snow-capped monolith, but in those moments, with a great man beside me, a rose flavored coffee in my hand, and the rain beginning to fall like a gentle caress- I was truly content. Oh, and the young lad, whose meet was the reason I was on the island in the first place, took first place overall. It was a proud moment for his family and also for me, for I admire determination and hard work above many other things, and such traits are things he possesses in excess. It was a delightful day, and a welcome change from the hermit like existence I feel I have been living these past few months. I write this all now as I am cozy in a leather arm chair, a skirt of burnt amber around my hips, a sweater donning my upper half, and rain boots the color of yellow traffic lights gracing my feet. I am awaiting the presence of two special friends, with an anticipation that could be rivaled only by the greatest of news. We are leaving shortly hereafter to frolic about a pumpkin patch, and by frolic I mean no understatement of the word. I am deeply enchanted by pumpkins. There is something so arcadian, so provincial about them... I hardly know how to describe it. They are the very essence of Autumn, and radiate a warm, agrarian feel.

      “...dark furrow lines grid the snow, punctuated by orange abacus beads of pumpkins - now the crows own the field...” -John Geddes, A Familiar Rain