In waiting

I knew it, even before I got to the coffee pot this morning. I felt it, even before I could put the nametag “homesick” on it. I found myself reciting lines of Christina Rossetti, Grace Knoll Croll, Erendis Nasard, the Psalmist. And they all sounded very mournful. “Oh, that I had wings of a dove…”

It followed me to work—this walking-the-edge-of-a-knife tension that signifies one of those days when you feel every moment, afraid that the atoms holding you together might give way before you can get home, and you will melt into a puddle of tears and random bits of matter at your feet (which will subsequently cease to be feet, since they will melt too), and feel that you are a Thing which has properly lost all of its Property-ness. And you know, in theory, that you are young and strong and happy and that only makes it worse because none of these facts have communicated themselves to your hands or feet or brain yet. In Girl, we say: chocolate and crying (no cure, but a treatment, at least). In Boy…I don’t speak Boy, but I have a feeling there is no equivalent.

But I reminded myself of a devotional I read recently, which included this sentence: “My desires become material for sacrifice.” I was thankful for this, because it meant that I have something concrete to offer up to God. Instead of just saying, in general, “Yes, Lord, I want to take up my cross and follow you, take my whole life,” I could say specifically, “Look, Lord—I have this pain; this love; this desire for a good thing: I put this on my altar, right now, specifically, because I want to be yours.” And so the pain becomes a reminder of my decision to follow Christ, of His purchase of my holiness, becomes something I have which I can give as an action of love; a reminder of joy.

I wrote Isaiah 40:31 on the board for my first lesson, and we talked our way through the various words. “Tell me what this makes you think of,” I said. “Are you ever tired?” Eliseo, my only young student for the class, shrugged. “I’m in waiting,” he said.

I tried to explain to him that we don’t say that in English. “This is very poetic, has the sense of waiting, expecting, depending on God, seeking His will,” I said. I looked later in the Italian, which says, “hope in.”

We then went on to talk about the use of “shall” as a promise (or a threat, but I don’t think so in this case). It reminded me of something I read, speaking of holding God to His promises. That’s faith, isn’t it? Taking God at His word.

Someone who felt things even more than I do, and who actually had reason to feel things, believed this: “This I call to mind, and therefore I have hope: the steadfast love of the Lord never ceases; his mercies never come to an end; they are new every morning; great is your faithfulness. ‘The Lord is my portion,’ says my soul, ‘therefore I will hope in Him.’ The Lord is good to those who wait for Him, to the soul who seeks Him. It is good that one should wait quietly for the salvation of the Lord.”

I did remember one way in which we use “in waiting” in English: when we consider something only a matter of time (do you know, I miss the word “expect” in Italian—it only has “wait,” which isn’t always the same), especially with royalty, or champions. “The princesses in waiting,” I saw once as a title for the girlfriends of the Royal Highnesses. I too, am expecting to be royal, but I don't have to anxiously await approval--I already have the promise.

Our citizenship is in heaven, from which we eagerly await a Savior, the Lord Jesus Christ, who will transform our lowly bodies to be like His glorious body, by the power that enables Him even to subject all things to Himself.

Lord, I will be quiet and wait—not tapping my toes, but firm in the knowledge that you have everything taken care of, knowing that I too will rise up with wings as eagles.

That special something...

For those of you who have ever thought of it as a light subject, it’s not. At least not when you live in Italy.

I don’t know about the rest of you, but in summer my style always tends toward minimalist, careless chic—as in, I don’t care what I wear, as long as it’s cool. I generally wear only basic makeup jewelry—who needs all that stuff on their skin, anyway?

But here, style continues into the summer. Probably around 90% of the women on the street now are wearing dresses—a cool, comfortable, fluttery option. And although many of them I wouldn’t wear myself, being a girl I don’t have so much of a personal problem with the lack of modesty some of them display, so I’ve mostly been enjoying the fashion show. But it’s very different from the American look-like-you’re-gorgeous-without-trying look. They definitely try, and know what they’re doing. I hand in my hat to them.

I went out to the park yesterday, it being my day off, and knew I was going there to read and tan. So I wore a sleeveless denim shirt over a tank top, shorts, and black sandals that are sort of like flip-flops, but not.

Out on the street, I had the feeling of one who has been caught in the main building during business hours when there is a reception going on wearing gym clothes—or maybe pajamas. Maybe like you and I felt, C, in the Galleria, only more so. I slunk my way down the sidewalk, feeling all the reproving eyes on me, half expecting to be reprimanded for dressing out of code. I know they were looking at the faded polish on my toenails. But why don’t I ever think of that while I’m at home?

This is ridiculous, I finally told myself. I am an adult, and I ought to be able to wear whatever I want to wear to walk on the street going to the park. This is a street, not a by-invitation-only fashion show. I refuse to be self-conscious. I am an American, and I will dress like it if I want to!

But later I bought a set of bangle bracelets to have another accessory.

If you want to see for yourself:

thesartorialist.blogspot.com has several pictures from the streets of Italy. These people aren’t the exception, they’re the Rule.

Aaaaaaah!!!!

I...made...an...appointment to get my hairs cut in a foreign country! I'm not sure whether to be excited or terrified...

So far

Change, and constancy
Still nostalgia of the soul.
So we live panting for the next
Memory of before.

Every always time
Heart slips into reverse
With forward thrust.

Fall dripped through my fingers,
Winter bared my flaws.
Spring sang sharp and
Summer stole upon me blind.

Apart from you, the charm
Is lacking in the face
Of change; chameleon-child
Wants faith for company.

Slowing future fades to memory--
Your presence perfect calm of constancy times change.

Dusty

I'm currently reading La sedia d'argento--perhaps more familiarly known as The Silver Chair. Many benefits to this, including Italian (word of the day: cavaliere--note the similarities with English "cavalier" and Spanish "caballero", which for some reason had never occured to me without this middle link. For further fun, cavallo is horse.)

I love this book, perhaps more so from my current perspective. "Remember the signs," Aslan tells Jill. "It's easy to remember them here on the mountain, where the air is clear, and your brain is clear. But down there the air is heavy, and muddles the brain, so you must repeat the signs." (loose translation).

I haven't gotten to my favorite part yet, but I know it's coming--where Jill and Eustace and Pozzanghera are further down yet--not only in the air that is not from the mountain, but in the underworld, and the witch is sprinkling green dust and the air is heavy and they can't remember what is real. But Puddleglum is my hero.

Set your mind on things that are true...

it's april

With thanks to Erendis, who first rendered me conscious of this. And it was finally true today!



when faces called flowers float out of the ground
and breathing is wishing and wishing is having-
but keeping is downward and doubting and never
-it's april(yes,april;my darling)it's spring!
yes the pretty birds frolic as spry as can fly
yes the little fish gambol as glad as can be
(yes the mountains are dancing together)

when every leaf opens without any sound
and wishing is having and having is giving-
but keeping is doting and nothing and nonsense
-alive;we're alive,dear:it's(kiss me now)spring!
now the pretty birds hover so she and so he
now the little fish quiver so you and so i
(now the mountains are dancing, the mountains)

when more than was lost has been found has been found
and having is giving and giving is living-
but keeping is darkness and winter and cringing
-it's spring(all our night becomes day)o,it's spring!
all the pretty birds dive to the heart of the sky
all the little fish climb through the mind of the sea
(all the mountains are dancing;are dancing)

~ee cummings

quote of the yesterday

Italian teacher: "teoricamente, in teoria...in Italia, tutto in teoria."




if you want the translation, it's down there...















"Theoretically, in theory...in Italy, everything's 'in theory.'"

Moriar, ne moriar

I don’t want to be writing this post. I’m tired, my feet hurt, it’s raining and cold, my internet connection isn’t working, there is not sufficient chocolate available in the house (somebody must have eaten it), and I just don’t feel like it [edit from 4-15-08: and now my bike has a tire that is as a flat pancake and refuses to be otherwise]. But (if you don’t want to read the rest) that’s kind of the point.

I wanted to write this earlier in the day, when I wanted to write it. When I could feel it in every bone of my body and I was almost crying with the reality of it—doubly-so because I couldn’t write it down at the moment. Now I don’t want to. I tried to avoid telling God that, because I don’t feel like talking to him, but I reasoned to myself that it would be dishonest, writing something like this when I don’t feel it, or it might be trying to impress everyone with my good Christianity, and that wouldn’t be right, would it?

So in the course of avoiding writing this, and looking for the 20th time for the piece of paper that might have the information that might help me understand what’s wrong with my internet connection, I came across a card in a handwriting that is like mine, only much younger. It belongs to someone who was me once, years ago, and says this:

Psalm 93

The LORD reigns, he is robed in majesty;
The LORD is robed in majesty, and is armed with strength.
The world is firmly established; it cannot be moved.
Your throne was established long ago;
You are from all eternity.
The seas have lifted up, O LORD, the seas have lifted up their voice;
The seas have lifted up their pounding waves.
Mightier than the thunder of the great waters,
Mightier than the breakers of the sea—
The LORD on high is mighty.
Your statutes stand firm; holiness adorns your house for endless days,
O LORD.

oh.

We now return you to your regularly scheduled post. And hopefully it actually means a little bit of something now.

The utmost reality for the believer is the existence of God. That’s it. That’s what it all boils down to— God is…good, loving, many things. But most of all, God is.

We must needs worship the highest when we see it (what is that from, anyway?). And when we recognize God’s is-ness, as God, it is also recognition of his highest-ness. And requires our worship. Think of His name by which He calls Himself. Before Abraham was…

This state of worship is the place where we are most fulfilled, because it is where we are most fully fulfilling what we were made to do. Even thinking of what He has done for us—redeeming us from our own sins—is supposed to point to something higher; the why of redemption: so that we might declare His glory, His greatness, His godness. (Yes, I feel like coining words today. I can, too, because you can tell what I mean, right? Which means we were communicating. Which means that it served its purpose as a word. But I digress.) If you doubt this, await upcoming post in which I will confound the point further, or read John Piper or C.S. Lewis—or maybe, Paul! And the Psalms! But you don’t doubt, do you, that God is the why and wherefore of history? The reason by which we exist, and the reason for which we exist? (Hm, this is sounding familiar…)

Jesus said, “Abide in me.” What is that but basking in the presence of God, to gaze on the beauty of the Lord, in whose presence is fullness of joy? And we have seen His glory, glory as of the only Son from the Father, full of grace and truth.

Continuing, He said, “I have told you these things that my joy may be in you, and that your joy may be full.” What does it mean? 1. He delights in us; 2. He plants his joy in our hearts; or, 3. our joy is in him?

“ ‘All three at once!’ said Bilbo.” When we gaze on God’s goodness, acknowledging His godness, we are filled with a joy inexpressible and full of glory, a peace that passes understanding, a hope that does not disappoint. Of course, as soon as we try to lay our fingers on these things, they disappear—they are the things, as C.S. Lewis put it, that you cannot find by looking for them. Because they are the result of God’s joy in Himself being reflected in our hearts (and if this sounds selfish of God to you, I refer you to earlier reading suggestions). They are the little weak echo that our hearts respond with when they hear the glory of God being played as the theme of history. They are a preview of heaven.

I had one, yesterday. We had a baptism at church, and when the baptized emerged from the water, we all let forth song, Son salvato per grazia/ Ed a Lui do la Gloria/ Son salvato per grazia/ Da Cristo Gesu… I am saved by grace/ and I give the glory to Him/ I am saved by grace/ through Christ Jesus…it was a moment when one said to oneself, yes. It will be beautiful beyond imagining.

But, to borrow from Lewis again, we must be careful not to confuse our feelings about the thing with the thing itself. Perhaps this is why they disappear when we look for them. And this is why (Hannah) we must not base our behaviors on the feelings—they aren’t The One Thing Needful, The Pearl of Great Price.

And here is where the surprise comes in: not only do we get to experience this joy, but this is when it can be seen by others, too, as we all with unveiled faces behold the glory of the Lord and are changed ourselves from glory unto glory, becoming the aroma of Christ as we shine like stars in the universe.

So we can confidently say,

Though He slay me, yet shall I hope in Him.

We know that our old self was crucified with Him in order that the body of sin might be brought to nothing, so that we would no longer be enslaved to sin. For one who has died has been set free from sin. Now if we have died with Christ, we believe that we will also live with Him…present yourselves to God as those who have been brought from death to life, and your members to God as instruments of righteousness. For sin will have no dominion over you, since you are not under law but under grace.

Let us be grateful for receiving a kingdom that cannot be shaken, and thus let us offer to God acceptable worship, with reverence and awe, for our God is a consuming fire.

Lord, consume my self in you, that you may be all in all.

Y I h8 SMS

SMS being text messaging in a more compact name, since our already highly-efficient language obviously needs compactness. But I digress.

There may be people in the world who can wittily and accurately say what they mean in 60 characters or less, and there may well be people to whom it is not a matter of note whether or not they accurately and wittily say what they intend. I, unhappily and happily, respectively, am not one of them. IM is bad enough for misinterpretations, because it requires less thought even than an email, and has less personality than a person's voice, or even handwriting. But whoever created SMS did a thing far, far worse than anyone else had ever done.

I love words. I love the way they taste when I say them, and I love the way they flow together under my fingers, creating sentences with sense that can even occasionally be a pleasure to behold. But most of all, I love the way they do what they were intended to do- communicate.

I love turning to my palette and choosing the appropriate word to placate my palate (Might someone suggest a better word for "turning" or "choosing" in that sentence?). But alas, they do not exist!

What doesn't exist? My mind! I mean, the words in my mind that I'm trying to say...

ahem. Excuse the Odyssey moment.

To conclude. It has been conclusively proven that SMS is less than human. And does not make sufficient allowances for writing majors. So I suppose I shall just keep taking twice as long to answer and being charged twice as much when the phone decides that my message is not one, but two.

primaverita

I don’t care what the calendar says, today was the first real day of spring. It rained.

But this rain was different from the frozen-cold-sky-is-falling-in sort of rain that io odio. This rain was sweet to the taste, bippety-boppety-booping me on the nose, and running away laughing. A rain of the heaven-is-falling-into-earth sort. The sun was still splendoring—the rain didn’t blot out even my vision of it; only added to its glory.

Rain like this makes me want to go dance and spin in circles and laugh for no reason, but I contented myself with riding my bike for an explore, seeing if I could get myself lost and then found. And it half worked-- I only had to ask directions once. I saw lilacs, and stopped and pulled down a branch, and it showered me with spring-smell.

Everything was so fresh in the park—even the people. At least I felt fresh. Like the man seeing the real sun after being stuck in the cave.

Yesterday was a day of continued struggling. Trying to kill the old self, trying to kill the self-centered attempts to kill the old self, trying to kill the self-obsessed tries at killing the self-centered attempts to kill the old self…ad infinitum. Saying to myself, when does this happen? When I am not reading my Bible and praying and memorizing Scripture and meditating on it…must read Bible. Must pray. Must memorize and meditate. AAAAAAHH! There I go again making lists for myself of things I can accomplish! Die, die, die!

“Lord, I don’t know how I’m going to keep this up the rest of my life,” I thought. “It’s only six o’clock on day…well, whatever, and I’m already exhausted from this struggle. I’m going to take a nap.”

So I went to lie down, brain reeling. And then it came. “Abide in Me.”

What? Can that really be all there is to it? Um, are you sure about that Lord?

But sure enough, there was more: “Be still (cease striving, or, maybe better yet, STOP!) and know that I am God.” Oh. “Commit your way to the Lord. Trust in Him, and He will act. He will bring forth your righteousness as the dawn, your justice as the noonday.” Do not be anxious about anything—fret not! Trust in God. Trust also in me.

A-bide [uh-bayhd] (according to dictionary.com):

verb, used without object:

To remain; continue; stay.
To have one’s abode; dwell; reside.
To continue in a particular condition, attitude, relationship, etc.

I know “abide” wasn’t the original word Jesus used. But I do love it. The Italian says dimorare, to reside, according to my dictionary. Can’t you just see Jesus? “Live here in my love. Settle down, set up housekeeping, stay here. And I will live in you. And no, you can’t bear fruit without me, but when I’m living in you, you will bear fruit that lasts, and my Father will be glorified. How do you abide? Simple. Obey my commandments. Love each other like I have loved you. Don’t worry about producing love out of yourself—I’ll remind you of my words, I’ll produce the fruit in you—you just stay here with me.”

Aaaaaaah. This is it. This is the peace that surpasses understanding, this is the complete, real joy. This is the perfect love that casts out fear. Not that we loved Him, but that He loved us.

No condemnation

Been struggling lately, with seeing sin in my soul, its root in my pride, seeing my own prideful sinful attempts to deal with my sin myself, my own sense of overwhelming guilt, my own attempts to kill my Self so Christ may live in me (no, alert things, I am not talking about suicide, but about "dying" to my own will and wishes.). All of which are wrong. But I see in myself a daily struggle-- wanting to say, no, it's okay, Lord, I have everything under control--oh, maybe not. And I am so thankful that God loves me enough to show me my weakness, to help me, to forgive me--to live in me when I truly let Him and stop trying to do things myself. And then I think, my goodness, H, are these not basic things? This is nothing new and exciting. Surely you have grown past this by now!

It is hard to see the weakness. But I know, too, that the basic things of the Christian faith are not things I can grow past--they are things upon which God can build, in my life, but they must always be there, supporting the higher things, keeping me from pride in myself and my own faith.

This is nothing new, I know, for Christians through history. It is nothing new for myself, either. I am thankful for the written records I have of times in the past when God has reminded me of my weakness and sinfulness and His grace. But what hurts is that I have to learn these things over and over again--not that I have to learn them, but that I have to learn them because I have forgotten them. How does that happen? Slowly, one day at a time, thinking to myself I don't need to spend so much time with God, in His word, thinking of myself the whole time I do, being impressed by my own godliness. Oh God, save me from myself.

And He does, even now. Not only did He save me once and for all, but He continues to save me from myself.

And He will, once and for all, because He's promised that He will change me. That He will fulfill the good work He began in me. That I will grow up into the stature of Christ, and that I will bear the image of the man from heaven. That He will be all in all.

Terrors in the night

It's been awhile. I've felt lonely, depressed, discouraged--but not panicked. Mortified, stupified--but it's been awhile since I felt terrified.

I used to have bad dreams very often as a child. Say what adults may about the joys of being young, it is also filled with fears, and those fears used to become real in the night. I remember being angry with a brother once for awakening me from the only good dream I could ever remember having among hosts of nightmares. But usually now my dreams don't scare me so much--they might be strange, or uncomfortable even, but not generally frightening.

It doesn't make it any less scary that I don't know what I was scared of. All I know is I knew I couldn't breathe--and then I woke up, and I still couldn't breathe. I had my mouth open and was sucking in air and none was getting to my lungs.

I was evidently scared enough that I scared everyone else. A door opened across the hall: "Is everything alright?" I didn't answer, because I was concentrating too hard on breathing. "Are you alright?" "Si, grazie," I responded this time, and then realized that was Italian in answer to an English question. It took some time before I could convince myself that it was alright to lie down again.

I tried to laugh about it in the morning: "Probably I just got the blanket in my face and thought I was suffocating--or maybe I dreamed that I had to speak Italian." But it didn't take away the cold fear that I would morbidly let slip through every once in awhile, like pressing on a bruise to feel the shock of real pain.

I do like to feel it sometimes--to remember, perhaps, that the world is not just a smiley daffodil place, and that I know it's not. To remember the darkness that I am hidden from by One who has promised to be my sun and my shield and pull me in under his feathers to keep me safe from the terrors of the night.

Jesus, the name that calms our fears. I will lie down and sleep in peace...

The question

The same question came back to me, in an unexpected place this time, like usual. It was a girl—not older than seven—who climbed onto the bus with her mother and another woman dressed in bright loose florals that stood out against the tight bristling black Italian leather, chatting in a language that sounded strange even in this strange country. The girl sat across from me, and I smiled at her over my book. She didn’t smile back.

What if I had been her? What was it like to have straniera stamped plainly in your brown doe-eyes and dark straight hair, to already know your place—your place as a foreigner in a country that would look down on you as rubbish come to steal their wealth; your place in a home where even little women were seen and not heard. Would I have resigned myself to my fate? Would I have even known that the rest of the world might resent it, might have something different? Would I have searched for a loving God?

I dropped my eyes back to my book, sinking into a place farther from here than even my home is, culturally if not geographically. But I could feel the eyes on my face, and I wondered what she was wondering.

Binario 2 in fog

Standing here
Upon the precipice of time
Between the end and the beginning.

Do not cross the yellow line.

It is perilous, terrible with
Fireanddangerandsword.

The fog surrounding isolates me,
Life-fog icing over as it parts
From the human body;
Smoke clouding from a million mouths obscures their flickering flames—
The only lights I see are red.
And I am distant from you,

Distinct

Apart

Standing here, next to me,
Beginning on the end,
Waiting for the whistle which will bring us back to life.

Taxi!

Apt. 2 & 3

apartment (1)

"This is what is laughingly known as my apartment..." It's been painted since--a buttery-ish slightly warmer color, and is lacking the ladder as decor. The blue on the couch is really a sheet--much cheaper and much more to my taste than all the real couch covers I looked at. The things on the shelf are my tazzini (little coffee cups for espresso) and tea candles, for when I am feeling candle-y.

No Guilt in Life, No Fear in Life either

Guilt and fear. They circle around, twin sharks ready to devour the Nobody little minnow that is me. And I panic and shut my eyes and put my hands over my ears and try to bury my head in the sand. Only there isn’t any sand.

Why do I allow myself to be so easily frightened by these things, even when I am swimming in oceans of love and grace and mercy and protection and blessing? (Okay, Hannah, metaphor’s getting a little thin now. Better stop before it gets all watered down.) Haven’t I learned to trust Him? Won’t I ever learn?

I look at God’s blessings, and say, he can’t love me like that. I know, because I know I don’t deserve to be loved like that. I have been focused on me, and I should have served Him better, and I should have trusted Him more, and I’m not a perfect Christian and I didn’t…

Or I look at the future, and say, I don’t know what I’m going to do, and I don’t know how I can handle this, and what if I mess this up, and I’m sure I’m going to suffer someday and I don’t if I can take it, and I don’t want to love this person because loving people hurts and what if…

Now some of this comes from personality. I am a wee bit of a perfectionist, and it’s easy for me to kick myself over lack of perfection in the past and to be petrified by fear of imperfection in the future. These are gaping holes in my armor that are just the right size for maybe not sharks, but arrows—and flaming arrows at that.

But youknowwhatyouknowwhat? I’m looking at the wrong person and the wrong time. When I am besieged by guilt, I’m looking at the past, and all I’m seeing is Me. Is God big enough to cover my sins and my mistakes? Well, Yes. When something paranizes me with fear, I’m looking at the future, and all I see is Me. But is God in control, and big enough to cover the sins and mistakes I will make then, too? Well...Yes.

Here I would quote The Screwtape Letters, except for the difficulties of finding the right passage and trying to quote it in a way to get across what Lewis is saying through Screwtape’s messed-up mouth. Besides the embarrassment of placing his brilliant and clear writing in too-close contrast to my own.

Instead, therefore, I shall attempt to summarize a new point I gleaned from them this time around.

God wants us to be focusing on only two times: Eternity, and the Present. Or perhaps it would be better to say, the Present in an Eternal perspective. He wants me to look at time the way He sees it, so that when I look back, I see a cross that proves His love and forgiveness. And when I look forward, I see the One with scars in His hands welcoming me home. The past is not there to haunt me; it is covered. Follow me, and let the dead bury their own dead! The future is not there to hunt me; it is covered. What is what-if to you? You follow me!

The gratitude for the past, the promise of the future, drive me to live in the now. As I stoop to pick up the shield labeled, “Faith,” I see that He is here- right now- with me. And the burden is light.

Look what you've done!

"There is some one you ought to meet:
It's me, Mister Incomplete.
Look
At
What I've become.

For it's due to the lack of you
That I'm now only half of two,
Look
Back,
Finish what you've begun..."

~Bread, "Look What You've Done"

fine print: This post does not necessarily reflect the views of this or any other blogger. Meaning not included. Void where prohibited.

Thought

There is a vast difference between contentment and resignation. It's easy to mistake one for the other--to happily say to oneself, "I am not being constantly jealous or fretting: I must be content!" But resignation can simply be complacency-- not thinking or caring enough to care, passive. Contentment is a constant struggle, actively facing the desire and submitting it to God. It requires picking up the shield of faith over, and over, and over again. It is not a state of mind to be achieved, but a state of being to be sought. Contentment is a willingness to bear the present burden, leaving the future in God's hands.

"What is [fill in the blank] to you? You follow me."

"O Lord, my heart is not lifted up;
My eyes are not raised too high;
I do not occupy myself with things too great and too marvelous for me.
But I have calmed and quieted my soul,
Like a weaned child with its mother,
Like a weaned child is my soul within me.

O Israel, hope in the Lord
From this time forth and forevermore."