Wondering in the Waiting

I do a lot of thinking and praying in the shower. I know it seems crazy, but there's something about letting a full stream of shower water pour over me. It's abundant. It drenches everything. It cleanses. And somehow that process feels like a very appropriate place for me to talk to God, daily. One night while allowing the water to pour over me, with my head directly under the stream, so much that I had to hold my breath, rain came to mind as it often does.
journal entry 3.6.12 - Continuing with the theme of waiting.
Tonight, in prayer [under the faucet] I kept picturing what it might be like, and wondering what it might be like for the barren woman to feel a baby kick from within her, for the sufferers of a long drought to be drenched, soaked to the bone in rain as it quenches everything dry around them, for a mother to look upon the face of her new born child after what felt like a long suffering delivery, for a lost child to return home to his fathers' arms after years of wandering, for a blind man to receive sight having been born blind. This is what the experience, that I have not felt, but can imagine would be:
Utter joy flows from the soul in the provision, the abundant provision, of a blessing, a thing of the Garden origin. A joy expressed that has no words. What occurs is a pouring out, of rejoicing, of gratitude, of thanksgiving. It is a release of all the tension of waiting so that one would find themselves unable to do anything but, in abandonment, waller in the blessing and delight in what is good--not in an idol fashion
but rather in a way that worships the one who created, withheld, and gave the bessing, the long awaited for blessing. Surely, this too is what it will be like in the day of our Lord's return.

Breaking Croissants with the Trinity

A few months ago I read "The Shack" by William Paul Young. I loved his picture of a broken man dining with the trinity. As I recently went through a struggle this picture found its way back into my mind - a whisper of the Spirit. I had found myself, once again, in a waiting place to see how God would unveil his story for me, a part of my story that I couldn't control, so I just had to wait. Parts of the waiting were extremely hard. When decisions linger in my life, especially those related to my friendships and relationships, I find myself aching for the end result.  Most often that aching looks like praying to God in a tirade of endless analyzation.
In my picture of breaking Croissants with the Trinity, this is what I was doing. The Trinity, Father, Jesus, and the Holy Spirit - some how in a sort of body form - all were sitting at the small dining room table, eating of course. I'm walking around the kitchen in one of my fore mentioned tirades as they calmly listen, but eat on. I slump myself into the last empty chair and stare blankly at their faces, letting it sink in that all of my analyzation will not hurry, change, or reveal to me the outcome. I noticed a smile on all of their faces. "You know the story, don't you?" I said. "Yes," they all replied in perfect unity. "And you are not going to tell me right now are you?" I sigh. They, in unity once more, reply, "Not a chance." There's a slight discomfort in the not knowing, but the trinitarian presence melts even that away within my soul. I might not know what the outcome is, what the story will hold, but see, looking upon their faces, I know it's going to be good. The relationship I have with them is like that of my friends and family who are my trusted family. They love me. I trust them with my life.
A few days later, God did indeed reveal what will at least be the next chapter on this situation in my life. It made me quite sad. I found myself in a state of wanting to question God and demand purpose in his withholding of my desires (Sound Familiar? Good ole' Job). I let what seemed to be anguish and distress flow from my very heart as I curled up in bed and cried for Jesus to hold me. The picture of the trinity and me dining floated back into my awareness. This time I was in anguish, head down, sobbing on the dining room table with no restraints. Their faces weren't  smiling, or accusingly telling me to remember to trust the story, to look for the good. No, their faces were downcast, hurting with me in my pain. Their touch upon my back was that of a nurturing mother.
I know, like in the first picture that God, the three in one, really does have his best in mind for me. But when I feel pain, he doesn't call me to be stronger, or suck it up and remember the truth. In fact, the very essence of knowing the truth, that they love me, allows me to both know the truth but also be completely vulnerable and sit before the living God, sobbing in my pain when he withholds a desire. That is family. That is what I understood growing up - being able to "laugh till your gut hurts or cry over your mashed potatoes" at my family's dining room table. That's the family we are invited into in God's Story.

Eating from Paper Plates

I first learned to express myself in the smallest unit of culture that I know, my family. I am most thankful for my family's ability to be real, to invite others into the reality of our lives.  If you come to dinner you won't see our fine china set out for you. You'll be squished around a small dining room table bumping elbows with the person sitting next to you. You are guaranteed for someone to spew their drink in laughter, to hear incredible stories from my Dad, and for my Mom to make you a great meal and send you home with the leftovers. It's a place where you are allowed to laugh till your gut hurts or cry over your mashed potatoes. We will laugh with you, cry with you, let out frustration with you, and hopefully uplift you.  I assume that we probably overwhelm the really well mannered and quiet ones, but always when they leave I see a glimpse of something in their smile and eyes. It's a joy that they have experienced realness and they know it is right and good. I used to be nervous when bringing in the new boyfriend or friend scared that they would be overwhelmed or not fit in but now I see that it's one of the most beautiful gifts I can offer someone.  Mom always used a saying to describe us when inviting people over to dinner, "We'll be eating on paper plates, but we'd love to have you."

I have had the desire to write for some time now. I began writing poetry when I was in elementary school, and over the past few years my journal writing has been a key element in my sanity of mind. Perhaps to write books would be my goal, but I first needed a place to begin sharing my unedited thoughts. So, here it is. My writing is sort of like eating on paper plates. I don't want to write to impress, give advice or out of the need for others to hear me. I do want to invite others into my life (my dining room table), to journey with me in realness. In the words of my mom, I invite you, "We'll be eating on paper plates, but I'd love to have you."