choosing to love

My sister got married this weekend.

She made for a beautiful and pure and hopeful bride – and in every picture you see the joy of waiting for her Prince Charming.

 

 Her and her husband have quite the story. I may need to have her guest post a few entries when she gets back from her honeymoon – but basically – about this time last year, he broke up with her in a letter…saying he couldn’t be with her because he didn’t love her.

He shared their story at the reception, and with tears in his eyes he told us that when he broke up with her, he couldn’t understand why God wouldn’t let him fall in love with such an amazing girl as Christina. (And she is pretty amazing. She’s one of my best friends and I miss her like crazy because I haven’t been able to talk to her in almost a week. Dumb, stupid honeymoon. Totally kidding.)

In no simple terms, God gently spoke to Kyle: “if you think she’s so amazing – why don’t you fall in love with her?”

And so he did.

He realized then – as I feel most of us do at some point – that love is a choice. And he chose to love my sister in every possible. 

I’ve seen this before in my own parents. Growing up, they set the standard of what we were to look for in our own relationships. Trust. Loyalty. Laughter. Friendship. And most importantly? Love – choosing to love the other person daily.

 

I know I’m lucky. I know some people didn’t have this lesson in love growing up and a lot of people don’t understand our family dynamics: we’re close. My siblings are my best friends and my parents mean the world to me. We hurt each other often and get on each other’s nerves – but we love.

And I have my dad to thank for showing me how I lovely I am and how worthy I am of love. Watching him and Christina on Saturday brought back a flood of memories of my own day – latching on to his arm and leaning on him for strength as we walked down the aisle – moving from his protection to Russell’s – knowing even though I was leaving and cleaving, my dad would always be there.

As Christina & Kyle move in to marriage, I pray they remember the newness and excitement of these first few weeks. I pray they never forget what it felt like to wake up to the love of their life for the first time and in moments where taking the easy road seems logical and the door seems far too close, they choose to love.

Congratulations, Mr. & Mrs. Kroeger.

Kyle – welcome to the family.

i’m here

two minutes:

i’m here. but i’m working on a project that has completely stripped me of any spare time – so bare with me while i attempt to achieve one of my dreams.

how are you? what steps have you taken lately to “suck the marrow out of life” and achieve dreams HE has placed in your heart?

love you, guys.

still whispers

The heat was palpable.
In the one-room shanty, family togetherness quickly became annoyances. I rolled the sleeves of my shirt up and wet the rag in the ice water held in the sink for washing. Glancing at the sky, I silently wished for a storm.

“Girls, let’s go for a walk.”

My sisters and I breathed a sigh of exasperation as we looked at our mom with disbelief. My sister Blanche glanced at me with her how-can-we-get-out-of-this look and I just shrugged my shoulders. Sometimes, I learned the best thing was just to go along with what mom wanted. She is a fiercely loyal woman who doesn’t even break five-foot-two. However, her size is by no means a match to her depth of intimidation. And at that moment, the level of intimidation was quite powerful.

We were in the middle of nowhere in Idaho’s mountains. I had absolutely no desire to experience the heat radiating off of the red-clay dirt instead of watching the heat waves bounce off the surrounding peaks within the protected walls. But, it didn’t look like I had much of a choice.

As soon as we walked out the door, I was hit the a sudden breeze. The snow was finally melting on the mountain peaks and wind, crossing down from the tips, was cooled by the winter wonderland. We circled around the cow camp, my mom’s face wet with perspiration yet giddy with assignment. She led us to an enclosed area of tall and magnificent redwoods whispering of secrets lost in the wind. Leaves rustled. Twigs snapped. My mom stopped and closed her eyes, a small smile playing at her lips.

“Do you hear it?”

My sisters and I looked at each other.

“Hear what, mom?”

“The wind. What is it saying to you?”

I squinted my eyes and looked at her as if was going crazy. She caught me staring at her out of the corner of my eye and she walked over where I was and quietly spoke – “Just listen, Elora. If you listen, your heart will speak.”

I smiled, but not out of understanding. My mother has always been her own person, so I wrote this time off as an example of one of her eccentricities.

Two years later, I found myself in the jungles of Haiti. It had been a hard week, and I was aching for my family. I grabbed my journal and flashlight and as soon as the sun fell below the tree line, I opened my notebook and waited.

I could hear it. Slowly the wind made its way through the trees and caressed my face. The rumble of voodoo drums and voices of Haitians worshipping mixed and created an odd dichotomy central to the village. I closed my eyes.

I thought about the week. The friendships formed and the memories created. Being rushed by a wild boar. Sleeping in a hut. Experiencing poverty at the most devastatingly beautiful level and finally realizing the truth and importance of community.

And then it hit me. He hit me. My heart exploded with the awakening and realization of true worship. Authenticity. Humility. I glanced around and watched these Haitians who had become close friends of mine dance to their heart’s content, all to praise the One who gave them today. It was…breathtaking. It was eye-opening.  Voices raised around me as I joined in praise.

That was almost ten years ago. The experience with my mom? Ten years ago. But, it’s funny how these things leave an impression on you. At the time, I couldn’t have told you that wind rustling through the trees would hold any significance on my life. However, since my trip to Haiti, I’ve come to realize that God tends to speak to you in the weirdest and purest of places. For me, it took traveling to an impoverished country devastated by years of trials yet rich with faith and hope to understand that He is real and moving and pursues us relentlessly.

Still whispers spoken to us in the wind – it’s quite romantic if you ask me. Very much what the Lover of our souls would do.

What do you hear?

do you storypeople?

one of my favorite websites i frequent is storypeople. most of these stories are written by brian andreas – an artist & storyteller who lives in SoCal. some of his writings that have inspired me are:

I promise you not a moment will be lost as long as I have heart & voice to speak & we will walk again together with a thousand others & a thousand more & on & on until there is no one among us who does not know the truth: there is no future without love 

and

They came to sit & dangle their feet off the edge of the world & after awhile they forgot everything but the good & true things they would do someday

and

Anyone can slay a dragon, he told me, but try waking up every morning & loving the world all over again. That’s what takes a real hero.

given the amount of inspiration brian andreas has offered to my own writer’s heart, (i have a plan to tattoo “walk like giants” on my foot at some point) i decided to implement his works into my classroom. so, for the past week or so, my students have been creating their own storypeople inspired stories. my room is now littered with posters decorated with students’ thoughts & hopes in the form of an andreas world. the students also posted their stories on our class blog – many of them putting in at least two or three as the inspiration hits them.

what’s your storypeople? andreas mentions listening for a whisper of a beginning & waiting until it’s loud enough to write down. i challenge you to try that today. tap into your creativity. write it down. share it with everyone here – all three of us.

here’s mine: the minute she saw his face the seed of love was planted in her heart & he knew even though he was born a thousand miles away his soul had found a home.

the thud of grace…

I often wonder how she felt.
Standing there, caught in her shame, there was no way to hide.
No chance of passing the blame – she was caught in the act.
No chance of getting out of punishment – these guys meant business.

But, so did He.

He already knew her. He knew her habits, her vices. He also knew her dreams. Her secret longings. Her desire to be beautiful and to feel beautiful. Yeah, he knew all about her. And he still loved her.

I often wonder how she felt; humiliated and scared out of her mind. Her eyes darting towards the jagged stones held by the hands of men – many of whom she had already met before. Many of whom she had already…known before. The cat calls and hissing of men and women in the crowd, the plea for justice in the form of stone against flesh, none of these could distract her attention though of this man standing next to her.

Majestic yet simple.
Fierce yet serene.
Jealous. Oh my, he was jealous.

A voice cried out, “Abba! We caught this woman having sex. Adultery! Fornication! It wasn’t even her husband! According to Moses, we should stone her.” The man, silently remembering his own indiscretions with the targeted woman, threw a furtive smile towards his friends. “What say you, LORD?”

Silence.

A few chuckled. She groaned inwardly. They had him now. All he had to do was mention this thing of…grace and they would have him trapped. She was a slut. A whore. A good-for-nothing piece of trash who gave away her body for a few scraps of bread and measly change.

Every one waited.

Quietly, he stooped down and wrote in the sand.

She braced herself for the first stone’s impact.

His voice shattered the silence, “Okay. True. She has sinned. But. Let the one with no sin throw the first stone.”

She closed her eyes, tears making rivers down her cheeks.

Thump.

One stone hits the ground with stunning finality. The man who dropped the stone, shoulders slumped, turns around and walks away.

Thump.

Another stone fallen; another man turns to leave.

One by one, the stones hit the dirt. The woman – was she amazed? Did she have the strength to stand under the weight of a sin forgiven?

Quietly, without much ado, the men left . Only One was remained.

“Where are your accusers? Did no one throw a stone?”

She managed a whisper, “No, LORD.”

He smiled. “Neither do I. Go and sin no more.”

I often wonder how she felt.

With the thud of grace ringing in her ears, did she dance? Did she sing?

Or did she cling to His hand? In desperation for love and acceptance, did she for the first time feel beautiful? Did she see her worthiness as far more than pearls as He gingerly wiped tears from her cheek?

I’d like to think she did a little of all of these. I’d like to think that humbled, she fell at His feet and wept the bittersweet tears of redemption. I’d like to think that when she was done, she finally felt what it was like to be forgiven.

To be free.