thoughts on seeing Jenny Holzer's Protect Protect

Protect me from what I want
All things are delicately interconnected
Ambition is just as dangerous as complacency

Silhouettes bask in the glow of these truths, lost in the challenges they present.

Being alone with yourself is increasingly unpopular
Being judgmental is a sign of life
Being sure of yourself makes you a fool
Chasing the new is dangerous to society
A charismatic leader is imperative
Life itself is not sacred
Romantic love was created to manipulate women
Spending too much time on self-improvement is anti-social
The most profound things are inexpressible
You are victim of the rules you live by
You have to hurt others to be extraordinary
A strong sense of duty imprisons you

The repetition of these words, the flashing stimulating the brain, bathing we here in the room in an other-worldly glow, our faces immobile yet ever-changing. We are transformed by the mere presence of these words - we need not read or believe them to change.

Emotional responses are as important as intellectual ones
Expiring for love is beautiful but stupid
If you can't leave your mark, give up
It's better to be lonely than to be with inferior people

The power of the word transforms all it touches - even when the words lose their meaning, what remains still has power. These flashing words stimulate, making couples want to express their love for one another, even when those words speak of the horror of rape. But for those of us with no outlet, we are left to scribble on the page.

Planning for the future is escapism
Sin is a means of social control

These words like rivers flowing, ever changing, their motion toward an unseen sea. If I step within them, they change and shift yet still remain the same. I no longer see the words but only their motion, the river but not the water.

This is what I imagine my unconscious looks like, a constant, unstoppable scroll of thoughts, desires, secrets, memories. But I lack the courage to display it to the world.

I am more moved by these phrases than the reality of what has happened in Iraq. Does this make me calloused? Or do I come to be challenged in a different way here? Everyday bureaucracy blown up larger than life makes me sad but does not change me. While it may be "the truth" about what has happened, it lacks the quality of Truth. Perhaps its that I do not need (want?) to be reminded how horrible war is for it seems obvious enough to anyone with a heart.
Æ

the power of dynamic planning

So this morning, while wandering aimlessly around Chestnut Hill, I received a phone call from my friend Lauri. Lauri, who has been pestering me to come and visit for a couple of years now. Lauri who planted the seed for this wonderful spring break excursion in my head. Lauri who was kind enough to open up her couch for me to crash upon while I was traveling. Lauri who found out this morning that she needs to have her gall bladder removed. Today. So. Plans shift and change. I won't get to see her, but will still head to Jersey and do the park-n-ride thing. Much cheaper than trying to park in NYC. And not like I'll need my car once I get there anyway. Anne is kind enough to let me crash with her for a couple of extra nights. Good to have friends as flexible as you.

Today has been quite relaxing, which is the point of vacation after all. Did a bit of walking, a bit of eating, a bit of shopping. Brad's seminary's bookstore is going out of business and their books were on sale. Picked up The Emergent Manifesto and a Willimon book for $8.25. Brilliant. Am now chilling on the couch, waiting for Brad to return from dropping off the boys and Sarah to return from work. No idea what is planned for the evening, but will be good to relax with good friends.

So imagine this: you've woken up early in the morning and driven through the beauty of Amish country to avoid the toll roads, only to realize the estimated time given by Googlemaps is about 45 minutes off. You eventually arrive at your destination, only to determine the only parking is metered parking and it's seven minutes for every quarter. So you drop as much change as you have and walk through the pouring rain to meet your friend. It goes well as you catch up over the past 20 years and realize you're both still much the same as you were in high school, at least the essential parts of you. Older, but the connection is still there. You're both a little annoyed at having to leave every half an hour to feed the meter, but it makes the afternoon more memorable. You even throw caution to the wind and walk down to see the Liberty Bell - you see it, but don't have the time to gawk at all the history posted on screens down the hall. Some other day. By the time you say your goodbyes, the rain has abated and you smile and hope it doesn't take another 20 years to catch up again. And then you go your separate ways.

Now it's later, and you make it to Sarah and Brad's house just in time to head over to their Easter Vigil service where their son is being baptised. In the hustle and bustle of greetings, you forget one thing - you drank an awful lot at the coffee house where you met you friend Gabe and haven't used the restroom. And you don't remember until the priest has lit the Paschal candle from the flames and you make your pilgrimmage into the building for the reading of the lessons. For those unfamiliar with the Easter Vigil, it's a celebration of the way God has worked in the lives of His people throughout the Old Testament, the salvation stories from creation through the prophets and beyond in a series of twelve readings, usually followed by a song and a time of reflection for each one. They normally last about three hours. So by the time the Israelites have walked through the Red Sea on dry land (the third reading), my eyeballs are floating. But there's no way to get to the bathroom from where I am, so I focus on the readings and hope it all goes well. I'm fine until we march into the sanctuary for the baptismal. There, the minister says these words:

Holy God, holy and merciful, holy and mighty,
you are the river of life,
you are the everlasting wellspring,
you are the fire of rebirth.
Glory to you for oceans and lakes, for rivers and streams.
Honor to you for cloud and rain, for dew and snow.
Your waters are below us, around us, above us: our life is born in you.
You are the fountain of resurrection.
Praise to you for your saving waters:
Noah and the animals survive the flood,
Hagar discovers your well.
The Israelites escape through the sea,
and they drink from your gushing rock.
Naaman washes his leprosy away,
and the Samaritan woman will never be thirsty again.
At this font, Holy God, we pray:
Praise to you for the water of baptism and for your Word that saves us in this water.

To make matters worse, the entire time he says these words, he is pouring water from a pitcher into the baptismal font...very...very...slowly. I had to bow my head and fake an emotional response to keep from laughing out loud and having my own private baptism right there. Miraculously, I made it through and over to the bathroom without embarrassing myself or my friends.

My urination distraction aside, 'twas a lovely service - those gathered laughed at the lighter side of each of the stories and the variety of readers definitely added to the enjoyment. I highly recommend attending one if you haven't before. Put it on your calendar now.

More thoughts later, perhaps. Been an excellent trip so far - exactly the refreshment I needed. Here's hoping for more of the same.
Æ

drive by posting

Great Easter weekend here in Philly. The Easter Bunny even found me and brought me a basket, first time in 25 years. The house is empty and I have much to write about, but I need to get out and about. Hopefully I'll find a spot here in Chestnut Hill to throw some words on the screen about the trip so far. First order of business, however, is find somewhere serving breakfast. Mmmmm. I did a quick google search, but think I'm simply going to walk and see what catches my eye. It's part of the adventure.

More later.
Æ

we're running with the shadows of the night

This song has been stuck in my head since last night.

Saturday morning. My old friend insomnia stopped by last night and refused to let me go until well into the morning and then stopped back later just to be sure I hadn't missed him. Bastard. So I guess it's hotels in general I can't sleep in and not simply ones where I have to share a bed. Will definitely make this summer interesting.

A steady rain has moved in, which should make my trek to Philly much slower and moister. I'm meeting Gabe at Cafe Olé - hopefully it's not too crazy crowded and I can find parking with a minimum of hassle. I haven't seen Gabe since...just after high school? First year of college? I'm feeling a bit trepidatious (shut up spell check, it is too a word) about it. You never know what to expect. It's almost like meeting someone again for the first time - we change so much over the years we're basically new people. But I'd like to believe our core stays the same, that I'll be able to recognize a certain "Gabeness" in him. We'll see.

I'm reading Peter Rollins How (Not) to Speak of God. I already read his Fidelity of Betrayal and found myself challenged. Probably should have read this one first since I'm sensing it's more laying the foundation. Enjoying it so far, though I wish it were my own copy so I could highlight in it. May have to see about picking up my own copy soon. May throw some choice tidbits up as I read them.

OK, I should see about gathering my belongings up and getting them out to the car. Also need to stop by the front desk and make sure they take off the "safe" charge on my bill. Seriously - I get charged for something I didn't request? Suddenly I have "Master of the House" running through my head.

Next stop: Philly and the baptism of Evan.
Æ

shadows

The day began in darkness as the buzzing above my head reminded me I wanted to make it to the 7:00 AM Good Friday service at Redeemer over in Hyde Park (or is it Oakley, I never can tell the difference). Showered, headed out, got there, only to find no one there and a sign proclaiming Good Friday services at noon and 7 PM. So much for the internet. So I drove and fueled up, went home and packed up and hit the road about 5 1/2 hours before my initial time. Might as well get to the hotel early to take full advantage of all the money I'm spending to sleep.

The trip itself was fairly uneventful - signs of spring abounded, but the day itself was a perpetual grey with smatterings of sunlight and sprinkles intermixed. I passed the time listening to music - the birthday mix Brian made for me (it rocked), the mix I made for others (not bad, if I do say so myself...and I do), and the new stuff I downloaded right before I left (including a brilliant musical called [Title of Show]. Hilarious, clever and highly recommended).

I made good time and great gas mileage and arrived in Mechanicsburg just before 6 PM. Generic Ramada Inn, but the place is mostly empty (yet the pool is always packed - go figure). My first goal was to find the St. Luke's Episcopal, which I had scoped out online and was having a Tenebrae service at 7 PM. Perfect. I checked email and FB (praise God for free wi-fi - and my new laptop) and headed to the heart of Mechanicsburg.

St. Luke's is your typical small Episcopal church - I was easily one of the youngest ones there. No one sat in my pew, which isn't surprising. But I quieted myself and focused on why I was there. Tenebrae is Latin for shadows and for the uninitiated, this service focuses on seven shadows associated with Good Friday, a candle representing each one and as each scripture is read, a candle is extinguished, the shadows growing darker and deeper until only the Christ candle remains. It then is removed and the congregation leaves in silence to contemplate the meaning of the death and betrayals celebrated through the scriptures and song. For my money, a far more moving service than your typical Easter cantata, especially since it forces you to actually deal with Christ's death instead of rushing to the resurrection.

Unfortunately, while they had the pieces, they missed the experience. The candles were extinguished, but the sanctuary lights were left on. The tables were covered with black, but the windows were not. The Christ candle never left but was only stashed behind the altar until the final song was sung and was brought back out. The reason? "The lit candle is then returned in the hope of spreading the light of the Gospel story through the disciples." Unfortunately, in the story, that doesn't happen for a few days. And instead of everyone leaving in silence, we wandered out, chatting about the weekend's plans.

Yet, I was still struck by the darkness of these shadows...Betrayal. Desertion. An Unshared Vigil. Accusation. Crucifixion. Death. The Tomb...and the echoes I find in my own life. Abandoning my trust in Him and turning to those things I can control. Staying silent when others mock my faith. Finding my own needs more important than waiting upon Him. Slapping Christ in the face and asking Him to tell me what comes next. Proclaiming Jesus King but taking marching orders from others. Standing at a distance, watching the work of the Kingdom. Wrapping Christ in spices to hide the hard truths about Him. These shadows remind me why we cannot simply jump ahead to Sunday - because for the time being, we live in the already/not yet. We cannot simply leave the lights on and disperse these shadows. We must find a way to live in them until the Light comes to take them away.

I also found myself fascinated by the ridiculousness of parts of this story. Judas saying, "Surely it is not I, Rabbi?" knowing full well it was. The disciples saying they would die with him and then bolting at the first sign of danger. Judas kissing (kissing!) Jesus to betray Him. An ear cut off. A follower, who for some reason was wearing only a linen sheet, running away naked. Such random moments. Why include these? Why didn't some later editor realize the silliness of much of this and take it out, tighten up the story, help the flow? Why not leave them in the shadows where they belong?

Oh right. Because that's where we live.
Æ

why am I not hungry?

Nearly 7:00 PM and I'm not at all hungry. This does not bode well, for it probably means I will be hungry at some unhealthy time, like post 9:00 PM. My own fault, I suppose, for eating such a big lunch at Moe's. But it was for my birthday and it was the only time before my actual birthdate to take advantage of the coupon (free entreé - can't beat that).

Oh yeah, if you hadn't realized it, it's my birthday week. Yeah for me.

I'll try not to bore you with tedious details of entering my final year in my thirties and how different my life is than I imagined it, both the good and the bad, though it will somewhat depend on how the week goes I suppose. Not exactly providing the hope you need, am I? If it helps, I pretty much thought myself out this weekend, so odds are I won't have the brain power or the desire to type it all up this week. Consider yourself saved.

Our "Irish Wake" for Jeremy went well, though somehow I made it through the entire day without consuming any alcohol. Diet Coke, however, is another matter entirely. My friend Andrea S. was there and she is the only person I know who can drink more than I can, which is rather surprising. I thought my "drinking problem" was one of a kind. Anyway, great to see everyone and catch up and share memories and make some new ones. I was sure we were going to get kicked out of the cemetery - so much for a solemn occasion. Though definitely in keeping with our memories of Jeremy. I think he probably would have laughed loudly right along with us.

I still struggle with Jeremy's death, though not so much because he's gone, but my reaction to his death. I feel a sense of loss because he's gone, but I'm not sad so much for his absence as for his absence in the life of his friends. Seeing their reactions and how much they miss him is what hurts. So it's for them I mourn, not so much for my own sense of loss. Sometimes I feel like that's a bit calloused, like I don't care enough. Even having lost friends, death still feels distant to me, something I know happens to all but having little effect on me.

I'm sure I rambled on this stuff two years ago, too, so forgive the rerun. Didn't help that our lectio last night was on the raising of Lazarus. Nice timing, that. Seeing Jesus' reaction to losing his friend, his anger (!) and being troubled made me question my own reactions. Actually, considering the season, I'm surprised my mind has wandered over these questions more often. Two more weeks of Lent. Not sure how the journey's gone - I've removed the distractions, but as mentioned before, haven't really filled them up with anything significant.

Still not hungry. This is not good. I'm tempted to find something to eat, to make sure I'm not eating right before I go to bed. But not being hungry, I have no idea what that might be.

OK, so I've been looking at laptops. Gina's looking to buy one to replace her old laptop and in the process of helping her I find myself thinking, "Hmm, maybe I should pick one up, too." I did get my taxes finished (finally) so I could probably afford a cheap one, even after throwing a huge check at my remaining consumer debt. And it would be good to have this summer when I'm stranded in Nazarenedom with iffy computer access as far as I know. And no, I won't be getting anything with an apple on it - for what I need, any Mac is simply overkill and would merely be a status symbol showing everyone how cool I am at three times the price of a functional PC. Oh, I'm sorry, did I type that out loud?

Time to walk away from the screen and figure out a plan for dinner. Bleah. Still no idea.
Æ

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Now playing: Primus - Eleven
via FoxyTunes

beware! this blog's gone sporadic!

So obviously I am in a season of random blogging at best. No rhyme, no reason, only when I feel like it. I suppose that's not too different than what I normally do, only I seemed to be much more consistent. Not sure if that's a good thing or not.

Pet peeve of the week - saw another national ad using the word less when it should be fewer. I know, less is more punchy and to the point. It's also wrong. No wonder our country can't speak its own tongue.

Social faux pas of the week: so our housechurch combined with the Rogers housechurch for some fellowship and so we could try to take care of some of the brush in my back yard by burning it in a fire barrel. All went well for about an hour, when my neighbor came out and complained that the fire was too close to his house and he'd be happy to call the fire department and let them know we were illegally burning stuff. So, being the non-confrontational person I am, I grabbed a bucket of water and threw it on the fire and called an end to it. I'm sure Steve was right and that I wasn't doing anything wrong, but why antagonize neighbors who probably don't like me anyway? It's times like these I wonder if I'm made to live in a neighborhood. You know, around other people.

Over halfway through Lent - I gave up chocolate (as usual) and TV, which is not at all usual. Haven't really missed it much, though trying to catch up on it all on Sundays doesn't always work. The problem is, I haven't found a constructive way to fill the time. Not sure I could say what I have done - probably more time online. The goal was to remove distractions, which I did, but don't feel I've redeemed the time so to speak. Sure, I've read more, but wonder if I should do more. Geesh, guilt-ridden much?

So last week for artwalk I spent some time in the Surrealism exhibit. If you're in the Cincy area, I highly, highly recommend it. Great stuff from the Jerusalem museum in its only North American appearance. Here are some random thoughts I had, both last week and on Saturday:

Unlike much of what passes for modern art, surrealism I get - the physical expression of the unconscious. Like dreams, we often cannot explain them, but they are felt and experienced all the same. Reason takes a back seat and we bypass the logical and see how it feels. We find within that which we can almost identify, but it slips through our fingers as soon as we try to grasp it. The familiar shifts to the left and suddenly what we thought we knew is something new altogether. Lines blur or disappear or become impossibly thick, breaking boundaries, opening us up to a new way of seeing. The colours seem brighter, more real than the muted ones we see in real life. Like our dreams, these images lie closer to the truth than our rational minds can grasp. These images force us to stare - with nothing solid to hold on to, our eyes try to make sense of what they see, but as soon as we think it makes sense, it slides and shifts, leaving only impressions, not knowledge.

Later...

These images, like half-remembered dreams captured on canvas - they remind me of moments thought forgotten. I do not understand the image, yet I connect with it. You do not explain these - you experience them. Like God, they resist category, resist examination. They are and we find ourselves examined by them. And whatever they elicit from us speaks more of who we are than of what they are.
Æ

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Now playing: Pomegranates - This Land Used To Be My Land, But Now I Hate This Land
via FoxyTunes

a parable

All his life, James wanted to be a writer, though he forgot the moment he fell in love with writing. It seemed pen and paper surrounded him most of his life. But he vividly remembered the first time he let anyone read his writing. He was ten years old, in the semi-darkness of his neighbor Suzy’s shed. He watched her face anxiously as she mouthed his words. What she would think? Would she like them? Her eyes caught his, then looked down. “It’s nice. Want to get some ice cream?”

He didn’t share his writing much after that.

Not that he stopped writing. He spent hours furiously scribbling in notebooks, on scraps of paper, wherever he could find a waiting surface. And often he imagined sharing these words. But he remembered the look in Suzy’s eyes and feared to see it again.

But as junior high passed and high school came, his confidence grew. One summer night, he’d almost shown one of his sonnets to a lovely girl in the backseat of a Camaro. But cowardice won out and by the time he found the courage again, she found her way to someone else’s backseat. Eventually, though, the stars aligned and he presented his good friend Anna one of his notebooks. And this time, the look he saw in her eyes as she read left him hopeful. She actually seemed to like them. Finally, joy! But after a while, James got nervous leaving his writing in someone else’s hands, even hands that seemed to like his words. So with many tears, he asked for their return. And, realizing his mistake, spent the next year trying to give them back. But the moment had passed.

Despairing, he talked to older, wiser friends who offered him encouragement, telling him to be patient, that now was not his time. Wait for college, they’d say. There you’ll flourish. There you’ll find yourself published. Then all those who rejected your words will realize what they missed and wish they hadn’t squandered their opportunity. James brightened up and eventually packed up all his notebooks and headed off to college with hope in his heart.

Over the next several years, James gave his writing away to waiting eyes, ever hopeful that this would be the one. But the one never seemed to materialize. Sometimes they returned the notebooks, unopened. Sometimes they enjoyed them for a while, but then got bored and gave them back. Sometimes they found someone else’s writing more appealing. He heard a myriad of excuses, but soon they all began to sound the same: “Your poems and stories, they’re nice enough, but…I was hoping for something more.”

James couldn’t understand – all around him, others were finding readers that understood their writing, even writers he felt weren’t nearly as gifted as he was. How was it so easy for some to share, to find readers that got them? How were they getting published when he could barely get anyone to look at his manuscripts? Why couldn’t he find connection with someone? Why didn’t others love his stories, his poems, his musings?

After years of struggling, holding on to hope, James found himself one night reading through his notebooks. As his eyes crept across the pages, it became all too clear, so clear he couldn’t believe he hadn’t seen it before. Maybe the problem didn’t lie in finding someone to like his writing. Maybe the problem lay in the writing itself. He’d always been told he was a good writer, that someday it would happen, someday he would get published. But sitting there by the light of a single candle, the truth became apparent: he wasn’t much of a writer. And he never would be. It made sense: if he had any ability or talent, it would have happened by now. Not everyone is born with the gift and better to realize this now and find what his gift was than trying to be something he could never be.

Without a word, he gathered up his notebooks, his pens, his pencils and shoved them into a box. He made his way down the basement stairs and placed them on a shelf next to some old clothes he kept meaning to take to Goodwill. With a final sigh, he walked back up the stairs, wondering what waited for him now, the box abandoned to the darkness. Æ

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Now playing: The Hold Steady - Lord, I'm Discouraged
via FoxyTunes

not so easy

I thought I would easily get back into the swing of blogging again, but I seem to have hit a wall of some sort. Every time I sit down to write, it all seems so trivial and unimportant. Why bother putting drivel out there. There's plenty of it to go around nowadays. But if I wait until I'm "inspired," who knows when I'll post again.

And honestly, is anyone out there interested in a blow by blow recounting of the trials and joys of my days? Surely I've been absent long enough that those who were using this blog as a means of keeping in touch with my life have moved on. And what kind of picture are they getting of my life anyway when I mostly use this space to bitch and moan? Not a complete picture at the very least.

Maybe it's time to put an end to this season of my life. I have found other ways to get my writing fix, other places to rant and rave. It was nice to scream into the void for a while, but maybe I'm in a different place now. Or maybe I was always in this place, only I didn't realize it. Or maybe I'm just in one of my moods and should shut up.

My lent so far has not been as focused as I had hoped. Giving up TV has left me with a lot more miscellaneous time on my hands, which I've been filling with reading and a little writing. But am I doing what I'd planned, which is actually finding/seeing God's face? Or am I simply filling the space left by one distraction with another? I do find myself doing a lot more thinking lately, which isn't always a good thing. I end up chasing my tail and convincing myself of things that aren't necessarily true.

Sunday night at Thinplace we looked at the Transfiguration and I journalled about what it is that terrifies me and I came up with a long list. Actually, it terrified me just how terrified I am. Not the fears we usually talk about - spiders, snakes, heights. These are ones I've been wrestling with for quite a while, ones I've not seen go away. And after I had written them down, I realized I had no one I could - or would - share them with.

Which makes me a little sad.

Look, maybe it's the season of life. Maybe all this is fairly normal, though I sense not much about my life could be considered normal. Maybe this too will pass. But what if it doesn't? What if this isn't a phase but is simply the next part of life and I need to stop hoping it will change and get used to dealing with what it is? Perhaps at this point it's too late to keep hoping each day will be different and realize my energy is better spent making the best of each day.

Which makes me a little sad. Æ

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Now playing: Soul Coughing - Screenwriter's Blues
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not intending to tease

So much for aspirations of writing every day of Lent. Blame end the end of the trimester. And being in a show. And simple a growing tendency to become easily distracted.

Last night was our third show. We're almost halfway through now. The performance felt the tiniest bit off, though I don't know if that means my perception was off or if we were off. I know I caught myself anticipating lines and actions last night, spoiling my performance. Hopefully not enough that anyone else noticed, though most likely if they did, it was an unconscious awareness. Will need to focus tonight to make sure it doesn't happen again.

Lots of friends and family in the audience last night - my parents; the Ball's; Russ, an old friend from college I haven't seen in about 20 years; Angela, Izaac and Sophie; one of my students and his mom. I came out after the show to chat, but kept getting distracted. Like I said, it all felt a little off. Combined with the usual post-show buzz, I probably came across as rude and uncaring. 'Twas not my intention, but I couldn't seem to track anything. Mea culpa.

Nothing officially planned for the day - I've started some much-needed laundry and need to sit down and finally gather all my tax materials together. No grading today - Saturday is my sabbath from all things school, even when I have piles still to go like I do. One day a week seems reasonable. I was going to try and grade last night during the show, but that didn't happen, which is probably good for all involved. The last thing you want is a distracted teacher grading your essays.

Maybe it's the greyness of the day, but my daily life seems to lack the lustre you'd want if you're going to share it with the world. Events of the past several days, weeks, run through my head, but none seem interesting enough to share. Or they seem self-indulgent (yes, I know the whole idea of a blog is in itself self-indulgent, but you know what I mean). This is what kept me away for so long. Nothing worse than having your own mundaneness and selfishness confirmed in public. And I don't dare open the door to my thoughts because I don't understand them most of the time and can't imagine what they would look like to outsiders.

Maybe I'm beginning to lose my mind.

Gee, aren't you glad you decided to check back in and see if I was writing? Time to stop.
Æ

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Now playing: The Dust Brothers - This Is Your Life
via FoxyTunes

what I've left undone

We start with a confession - forgive me, for I have sinned. It's been 56 days since my last post. This was an unintentional sabbatical. No forethought, it simply turned out this way. For some reason, my thoughts didn't feel worth posting. I know, I know, it's never stopped me before. But it did this time.

I'm not sure I have anything of significance to share tonight, either, but it's Ash Wednesday, the beginning of Lent, and I thought I throw a handful of my thoughts at the screen and see what didn't disappear into the void.

At Thinplace Sunday night, this phrase from Psalm 27:11 jumped out at me: "Seek my face." This is what I wrote about it at the time:

I imagine the scene - waiting at the airport terminal (heh - I wrote "terminable" originally), anxiously scanning the crowd as they come out the door, looking for the one we love. The crowd is filled with a myriad of faces, ones we could easily fall in love with or in lust with, faces whose eyes tell stories we long to hear. But not today. Today we long to see our beloved's face, the one whose absence has caused an ache deep within us. And oh the joy when we find them! Our entire demeanor transforms, our breath shortens and with a fierce determination, we begin pushing through the crowd. And then they see us and we see our own adoration reflected in their expression as they too begin to move toward us, oblivious to the many many bodies between us, intent only to find ourselves in one another's embrace. And there, arms wrapped around each other, we trace the contours of our beloved's face with our eyes, hoping to burn this memory into our consciousness forever. Like Peter on the mountain top, we proclaim it is good to be here. But like him we cannot stay, we must leave, hand in hand with our beloved.

When you're in love, every other face dims before the beloved. We stare at the brightness of their face and discover just how shabby everything else appears. The beloved is transfigured and we will never look at the or the rest of the world the same way.

This is my prayer for this season of Lent, that by seeking His face, I will be unable to see the world quite the same. I've begun by seeking to remove distractions from my life, those other "faces" that threaten to pull my focus away. No TV this year, which should give me more time to write down my thoughts here. But it's more than getting rid of distractions. I was reminded Sunday night and again tonight with the reading of Isaiah 58, that part of seeking His face means finding His face in the face of those who hungry, those who are thirsty, those who are naked, those who are imprisoned, those who are oppressed. Only when love is turned outward can it truly light up the darkness. Only then can we fall into the arms of the beloved.

I have miles to go on this Lenten journey. And I know it will not be easy. But I also know it will be worth it. Æ

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Now playing: The Pains of Being Pure at Heart - Orchard of My Eye
via FoxyTunes