Want to be friends?

I have a deep, deep desire to be truly connected to people. To be befriended, but also to be a friend--a true friend. I think this desire is rooted in having been hurt by friends, but also by having hurt some friends. I long to get it right. I have a long way to go, but I came across this blog this morning and I'm pretty sure we could get it right more often than not if we truly made an effort to be friendship. 

The Narrow Space

This blog comes to you today from the narrow space between a rock and a hard place. At least, it feels like that is where we are. My goal for the next month is to not grow bitter about this place. I won't complain about how dark and cold it feels, but I will make an effort to scoot into the light. You guys may need to remind me to scoot over sometimes and let you sit down. I will try to remember that you will be the ones who bring the light with you.

So I will sit here and hold my husband's hand. And I will know that God crouches there beside us in the narrow space. And He brings His friends.

Seashells on the Seashore

On Saturday, I got to stand at the edge of the Gulf of Mexico and feel the cool water wash over my feet. This was the first time I have stood on the sandy shore of the beach all summer and I didn't take it for granted. I hunted seashells with some people I love and whom I know without a doubt, love me just as much. I don't take them for granted either.

We hunted shells and we gave each other our very best finds without thought of keeping them for ourselves. Isn't that how love should always work?

As we hunted, I thought about those shells and how even though they weren't all perfect, most of them were cracked and showed the wear and tear of being tossled about in the deep waters, they were no less a treasure in our eyes.  And when we found them, we scooped them up, rinsed them off, and held them up to be admired. I also thought about how many times we find ourselves tossed about in the deep waters--the dark, treacherous waters. And when we finally make it to shore, instead of staying still, instead of letting ourselves be scooped up and washed off, we throw ourselves back into the deep, dangerous waters. It seems as if we would rather be tossed about than washed off. Maybe we prefer the deep waters to the safety of the shore because we can't really be seen in the turmoil of the water. Maybe we are afraid that if we stay still on the shore, that we will be passed by because we aren't good enough.

But maybe we should just be still and take a chance, let ourselves be examined. I don't know about you, but some of my favorite shells are the broken ones because I can see what they are really made of. And it only makes me treasure them more.

Maybe we should all stay still so we can be picked up.

Speaking in Metaphors

Maybe monks and poets know, as Jesus did when a friend, in an extravagant, loving gesture, bathed his feet in nard, an expensive, fragrant oil, and wiped them with her hair, that the symbolic act matters; that those who know the exact price of things, as Judas did, often don't know the true cost or value of anything.
from The Cloister Walk by Kathleen Norris

All Things New

This morning I watched the sunrise. I just don't take the time to do this enough. To truly watch the day blossom right before my eyes. I watched this daily miracle unfold through the windshield of my car as I made my way through early morning traffic in Houston. I was on my way to pray with a friend and then wait as many other loved ones did today in hospitals everywhere for whatever is broken to be fixed. For another kind of miracle.

I couldn't help but be even more appreciative of the miracle of a beautiful sunrise as I praised God for the miracle of life, for the beauty of my friend, for her courage, for her new beginning.  I found myself overwhelmed by just how much God loves us, each one of us. I was reminded once again that He trusts us to each other's care. He gives us to each other to love.

Alexis is easy to love. She has a great big heart--that now has a little generator to keep it on track. It is a heart full of love for the least of these. For sick children. For the broken and broken hearted. For family and friends she loves like family. I'm incredibly thankful God gave her to me to love and I thanked Him for her all day today. I'm sure I will think of this day the next time I watch the sunrise. And I will remember the miracle of the promise God holds for us: He makes all things new. Everyday. We just have to pay attention.

Neither Here nor There

I found myself very thankful last night. While working on some projects, I received a call from a dear friend and former student--one of my favorite people. He wanted to run some thoughts by me about a project he is working on. He is in grad school at Kansas State and my heart swells when I think about where he is in life, what he is learning, who he is becoming, and whom  he is already influencing with the ideas he is cultivating in academia.

I don't really have any regrets about leaving teaching, simply because I have so many former students who have become amazing adults. And while I take absolutely no credit for who they are and what they are doing, I do find satisfaction in knowing I saw greatness in them  when they were teenagers figuring out how to navigate life in the halls of Boling High School.

We talked last night about identity and how we see ourselves.  We talked about how identity changes when we learn to stop accepting the identity others project upon us. How we have to figure out what it means to exist when we realize we aren't the person other people told us we were. There is freedom  in shedding that false covering.  It was a stimulating conversation to say the least.

I continued to think about identity--including my own. I thought about the fact that I used to think a lot about getting there. The elusive there that would be the place in life where I stopped wanting more.  And I had one of those lightbulb moments (I have a lot of those) in which I realized that I don't want to get there--that particular place--anymore.  Because my there was a place of not wanting any more from  life. The place where I could sit back and coast. And knowing myself like I do, I know I'd just get lazy and complacent. I need more from life than that.

My there has changed over the years and I couldn't be happier about that. My there used to have a lot of stuff in it.  A lot of material goods.  Now it has a lot of experiences and change.  And that's how I prefer it. That's a longing for more that I can live with. That I don't think I can live--really live--without. And I'm  deciding I'll take the discontent that can go with that kind of longing. Because in my lightbulb moment I realized that the world has never been changed by satisfied people. And if you ever catch me coasting, point me back to this blog, throw my words in my face, I can take it. I'm  used to it. I taught high school.