I wrote this almost a year ago – and here I am – in the exact same place. I pray this next year brings Russ and I into deeper and more authentic relationships. And that we finally find a community of believers who want to do life with us.

Ragged Edges.

That’s a good description of my life right now. There have been so many things happening in the past few months, sometimes I feel as if I am barely hanging on to the side of the boat.

Life is never easy. I get that. And I understand that sometimes, you have to walk through the valley in order to get to the mountaintop. I’ve heard these cliches like a broken record my entire life.

But no one ever prepared me for the cruelties of pruning. The cutting away of dead pieces hurt. The fact they are dead means nothing to the truth that they are still a very much a part of who you are. And when these pieces are gone…pain remains.

We were made for relationships. I was reminded of that today. Lately, Russ and I have gone through a period where everyone who we considered a close friend has disappeared. It’s left us in an interesting position. Hurting for lost friendships, yet anxious for what Christ is preparing us for.

You know those desert clips? The ones where some guy stumbles through a desert, with cracked skin and a leathery face? All of the sudden, he sees a huge pool of sparkling water. Fresh, beautiful, clean and cold. He jumps in, only to be greeted with a mouthful of sand and pieces of tumbleweed. It was a mirage.

That man is me.

And I know that desert places are essential in our walk with Christ.
And I know that pruning calls us to a deeper understanding of complete trust in Him.

But it doesn’t change the pain and it doesn’t ease the burden of knowing you still have a long way to go and mirages are just something you are going to have to deal with – because on this road thirst is a part of the equation.

I am so….thirsty….

Thirsty for healing
Thirsty for a fresh start
Thirsty for authentic relationships
Thirsty for laughter
Thirsty for words….
Thirsty for His touch.

So this is me. Broken. Hurting. Waiting.

A new day is coming. A day where the glistening water won’t be a mirage and growth will start replacing the dead pieces. It might not be tomorrow, or the next day, but it will come.

When the world is falling out from under me,
I’ll be found in You – still standing.
Every fear and accusation, under my feet
When time and space are through – I’ll be found in You.
You make all things new.
- Brooke Fraser

Earlier this summer, Russ and I took some friends and went to watch Julie & Julia. It was mostly for him: he’s the chef in the family, and he went to Le Cordon Blue – just like Julia. However, as I watched the movie, I realized just how much I connected with Julie. Far too much, actually. This deserves a repost because it’s what put the burr in my saddle to begin writing again. If it weren’t for this movie – I never would have given myself a challenge. And my manuscript may still be sitting at 1,014 words instead of almost 60,000.

Russ & I went & saw Julie & Julia yesterday afternoon.

What struck me the most was Julie’s perception of herself as a “writer”.  Having finished half a novel – with no prospects of being published – she hangs her hat & forgets that part of who she is as a person. She shuts it off. I empathize with her mentality more than I care to admit.

More often than not, I find myself shutting off my “writer’s muse” because of fear or insecurity or just…laziness. Friends who find out I have a blog or that I have been published look at me quizzically & ask, “You write?” My answer is usually a sheepish nod & something along the lines of, “well, yeah…sort of.”

A couple years ago I was involved in a three week writing institute. Every day, for two hours, we got to write. About anything. It was absolutely glorious. One morning, I walked through the dusty hallways of the old school, found a not-too comfortable position on the wooden floor, stuck in my earphones & let everything out on the empty pages of my journal. That day, I wrote about who I was – how I viewed myself. The first words on the page:

I am a writer.

As I was writing, I wasn’t considering reading it out loud or sharing it with others, it was more of a manifesto of sorts. Something I could have as a memento; something my heart desperately wanted me to never forget. At the time, writing was just something I did. It was a part of me.

Somewhere, I let that go.

There’s a scene in the movie where Julie has just been interviewed by the New York Times. The next day, she’s walking around the city & she sees all of these people reading the column – her column with her face on the front page of the paper. I guess you can say it’s the moment where she has reached her goal – at least – the goal of finding herself. She isn’t lost anymore. She’s found her purpose.

It was during these five minutes of endless messages from publishers & journalists & what-have-you that she turned to her husband and said, “I’m a writer!” He replied with the belief only a husband could offer  - “you already were a writer.”

And oh, the tears flew down my face. (Good thing the theatre is always dark because I would have been quite embarrassed)

You know the feeling I’m getting at here. It’s when you are watching a movie or reading a book or talking to someone else & something happens or something is said & BOOM! electricity fires through you. Your heart demands you to pay attention to what is going on around you because…it’s important. It means something. It’s the moment you feel alive.

Like most people, writing – the thing I most enjoy – is the first thing to be sacrificed in my schedule.  I’m too tired, too busy, too wrapped up in everything else around me I can’t even stop & take a breath because it would mean feeling the nagging sensation of an empty muse.

I’m so tired of that feeling. And, the more I force myself to write – the more I give myself a strict regimen – like Julie did for herself, the more I remember the addicting sound of fingers slapping the keyboard & my mind going a mile a minute just to keep up with my hands. And I can’t help but wonder…what if?

What if I grabbed hold of my dreams? What if I threw out all of those nasty fears & insecurities & actually started writing. Really writing…allowing my words to take shape into whatever my inner Virginia Woolf has concocted – what would happen?

So, consider this a tipped hat to writer’s block & bruised egos. I am a bit done with waiting for movies to inspire me into acting out my passion. I’ve decided to set a goal for myself  & quit wishing I had the cojones to pursue writing & actually (wo)man up & do something about it.  At first, I thought three published pieces within one year would be sufficient – but that seems kind of easy. I want a challenge. I want to force my writer’s heart into submission, work its muscles & see how much it can handle. Rejection? Pshh. I’m ready.

I think.

Five published pieces. One year.

I think I may be crazy.

On a brisk Sunday evening last March, Russ and I encountered a man in downtown Austin who changed the way we view our city. We hadn’t moved yet – but this meeting told us two things: Austin is certainly where we are supposed to be and absolutely everyone has a story.

His name is Derrick. Russ & I met him this evening on the corner of 6th & Lamar. We had just finished eating at Z Tejas & were walking around downtown when Derrick approached us. He was hungry and needed two dollars & twenty cents in order to get the hotdog combo at 7-11 down the street.

“Even if you have ten, twenty cents – that’d be something. It’d get me somewhere & I would sure appreciate it.”

I liked him from the beginning. He had an obvious Cajun drawl – one fostered by many years in an obvious New Orleans-inspired location. Turns out, within five minutes of meeting him, we found out he was from Galveston.

Close enough.

We didn’t have any cash on us – we had used the last of it earlier. But, knowing places were open in Austin a little later than in Central Texas, Russ decided to get him something to eat at Waterloo Icehouse. A big juicy cheeseburger sounded better than days old hotdogs dehydrated from the blinding rotating light anyways.

They were closed.

“You see my luck, man? This is how it’s been for the past few months. I ‘preciate everything you’re doing. Really. I know you don’t have to.”

Russ & I looked at him & looked at each other. We knew where we were headed. We had planned to meander our way to Whole Foods and look around to see what kind of goodies they were promoting. Russ shrugged his shoulders and said, “Well, Derrick – how about we head on to Whole Foods? I think they are open to at least 10:00 & we should have time to get you something to eat.”

“Are you serious?” He began walking with us down the street – eyes focused in on the motley crue making our way & talking with each other in downtown Austin. Eyes shifted downward & shoulders hesitated as people passed us. I knew what they were thinking. I’ve thought it myself.

If I don’t make eye contact he won’t exist…

We made it to the doorway & he stopped. “I’ll meet you guys out here. I’ll just be sitting over there….” His voice dropped & he glanced in the direction of a stone edifice not 10 ft. away from the picnic tables.

“You don’t want to wait on the picnic tables?” Russ asked.

“No. I-I-I’m too embarrassed.” His shoulders began to sag a little and we quickly said it was fine, we would be back as soon as possible and turned away.

The smell of organic non-processed purity hit us as soon as we stepped into the store. I looked at Russ out of the corner of my eyes. “So. You haven’t eaten a good meal in quite a while. What would you want?”

“Pulled pork.” He says almost immediately. He heads to the meat section to get some fresh BBQ, & I loaded up on some piping hot apple cobbler. We topped it off with a fresh brewed glass of sweet ice tea and made our way outside.

Derrick was waiting for us right where he said he would. I think he thought we were going to turn & run. I don’t think he was expecting conversation. But he opened up that box of food & almost cried in delight. Literally. Can you imagine this? Seriously…right now…just try. Just try and imagine being so hungry you cried when you finally got something to eat.

…

We sat & talked with him for at least an hour. After a few minutes of small talk, I looked at him & said, “One of my passions is writing, Derrick. I love to write stories about people others wouldn’t normally know or see or pay attention to. If I were to write about you – what is the one thing you would want me to say? What is the one thing you want people to know?”

“Just me. I’m a person you know? Tell ‘em my story.”

I looked at Russ & smiled. I fought back tears & collected myself & forced my emotions to be in the moment. Remember his face. Remember the smell. Remember the chill night air & the teenagers laughing in the distance & the stereos blaring tejano-rap-country-alt from which ever way. Remember this my heart told me. I listened.

We sat there and listened to his story. Born & raised in Louisiana, he’s always had a passion for cooking. Cajun cooking in particular. “Beans. Rice. Gumbo – you name it, I know how to cook it.” He told us the secret of gumbo is not known by these fine eating establishments that like to think they have the most authentic recreation. “They don’t know what they are doing. Gumbo isn’t about money. It’s for family. Gumbo is a family meal.” He says this with enough authority to make you believe he knows what he is talking about, and he does. He worked in the industry for 17 years from the time he moved to Galveston until this past fall. He worked at the same restaurant, six days a week, for 17 years.

Until Hurricane Ike hit.

He remembers is like it was yesterday. It was on a Wednesday. Monday he went into work & heard about the storm, but no one was really worried. “We didn’t think it was gonna hit us. It was headed anotha direction an’ so we went about our business & kep’ workin. Like we always did. LIke I always did. Next thing I knew, the winds came and the rains came and I was sitting in water up to here.” He pointed to his chest. He and everyone else had no choice but to board the bus and head to Austin. Three days later, he went back.

To nothing.

“My job, my house, my neighborhood…nothing. It looked like this,” he said – motioning to the concrete in front of us. “One day it’s there & the next…” he pauses and takes a deep breath. “gone.”

“And people don’t understand, you see? People don’t get that I use to work. That I can work. I know things, you know? I’ve been cooking for 25 years. It’s what I love, what I do. I can’t get a job nowhere. I sleep under a bridge with a sleeping bag & dirty clothes. I was, whatchu call it…complacent?  I had a job & money & friends…went to parties and helped out when I could. I wasn’t worried about job security. This place had been around forever. It was a staple, you know? Now? Nothin. I have nothin’.”

He began to cry then. Tiny tears pushing themselves unwillingly out of the socket and down his face. Let me tell you. You wanna be broken? See a big man like Derrick break down. He has resolve though. Wiping his cheeks & taking a deep breath, he continued.

“I ain’t turnin’ into a criminal, though. I can tell you that right now. I’m a keep tryin’.”

I asked where he spent his days, and he told me usually in the library – but since they started construction the library has been closed. So he stakes some bench in a local park, grabs a newspaper, and reads.

Reads.

I sat there, listening to Derrick, and the whole time my heart is breaking. The whole time I am wanting to stop everyone I see and tell them, “Wait! Can’t you hear him? Don’t you know this man is suffering? He’s a human being! He’s had a life and a job and was three years close to retirement…please. Please listen.” But I know it wouldn’t be any use. I know I would get the same crazy looks we already are getting for sitting here and talking to this man who obviously hasn’t had a chance to shower or do laundry or make himself look presentable because he’s sleeping under a bridge.

But he’s still human.

And as we are chatting and laughing and joking around with each other, and as the conversation turns serious and tears threaten to spill on all three sets of cheeks, it hits me.

This is life.

At Mosaic tonight, we studied John 2 – when Jesus became infuriated and overturned tables in the temple. We discussed why. Was he angry at the injustice? Was he defending those taken advantage of by the ones who should be protecting them? Or was he overturning comfort – forcing those involved to leave their proximity of safety behind and live a slightly more daring life full of trust & faith & love & justice. Walking where He walked. Loving like He loved. Living like He lived.

Because, to me, he was overturning the safety nets of complacency. How can you truly live if you turn the other way & act as if these people don’t exist? How can you stare in Derrick’s eyes, watch him cry, hear his story and feel the pain –  only to turn and walk away to forget him the next day?

I dare you.

Get uncomfortable.

Because, I promise you. Nothing felt more right than sitting with this man for an hour this evening and letting him share his story. Hearing his hopes & dreams & fears reminded me of the rich truth that we are all in this together. And, if we forget about those who are less fortunate, if we close our eyes to those in distress, we are taking part in their pain.

Next time you’re in Austin, be looking for Derrick. He hangs out by the 7-11 close to The Tavern. If you see him, tell him Russ & I said hello. And then buy him some food & sit down & chat for a bit.

Once you do, you’re family.

I originally posted this last March – and it’s still something I strive for – jumping out of the shadows of my comfortable lifestyle and taking risks. Living dangerous love.

Over the past couple of mornings, God has directed me towards Psalm 119. This has always been one of my favorite chapters in the Bible, yet one verse continues to stick out: I’m single-minded in pursuit of you; don’t let me miss the road signs you’ve posted. (vs.10)

When we were younger, my sisters and I would play this game in the pool with my father. It was a cheap version of Marco Polo. Us girls would scream & giggle & protest our dad chasing us around the pool, but ultimately, we adored him catching us. Why? Because it meant him catapulting us into the air only to crash into the water with ease. Absolute hilarity brimming with the love of a father in pursuit of his girls.

How beautiful would it be if we sought His will so purely & without complaint?  I am one of the lucky ones. I grew up in a home which exemplified Christ’s love & the importance of seeking His will. Ever since I can remember, my parents have encouraged me to wholeheartedly seek His face.

But I still struggle. I wonder why. Lately, I have felt an irresistible  pull to do more and be more and dream more. What my life is right now? Not enough. He makes all things new & I am seeking a new start to a life filled with urgency & purpose. A life of risks. It’s been coming, but my toe is on the line & I am hesitating.

It’s so much easier to stay in the shadows, isn’t it? This isn’t who we were meant to be. There’s this little girl in our church. Every Sunday, she wears these red slippers – circa Wizard of Oz no doubt – and she is so completely unabashed about who she is. I’ll catch her every once in awhile – twirling round & round to see her skirt fold up around her knees. We have forgotten who we are. We have forgotten who we belong to. We’ve missed the road signs.

Later in Psalm 119, it says I delight far more in what you tell me about living than in gathering a pile of riches. (vs.14) What does He say about living?

• Pure and genuine religion in the sight of God the Father means caring for the orphans and widows in their distress and refusing the let the world corrupt you. James 1:27
• Run from everything that stimulates youthful lusts. Instead, pursue righteous living, faithfulness, love & peace. Enjoy the companionship of those who call on the Lord with pure hearts. 2 Timothy 2:22
• Learn to do good. Seek justice. Help the oppressed. Defend the cause of the orphans. Fight for the rights of widows. Isaiah 1:17

Approximately 3.5 million people are homeless tonight on the streets of America. 1.35 million of those homeless? Children. The average age for homeless people in the US is 9 years old.

I had a friend ask me a couple months ago – “if we have church buildings on almost every corner, why aren’t the homeless being taken care of? why do we even need homeless shelters?”

I’ll let you think about that for a moment.

…

As of 2006, there are approximately 350,000 church buildings in America. I wonder, since 2006, how many building projects have been approved and money raised for pretty new walls for people to meet for a couple hours every Sunday. I tread murky water here, because I know building projects are a sensitive subject for many churches and deacons. But…couldn’t that money have been spent on something else?

Like food for those who don’t have it?
Or shelter for those who need it?
Or clothes for those  who have none?
Or something more revolutionary & creative & mindblowing that focuses on Christ’s love instead of what brings in numbers?

It just seems that, if we were truly pursuing him at all costs – full speed & looking only at His glory – we would be doing things a bit differently. I would be doing things a bit differently. Our view would be different. How do I know? I’ve lived it. I can’t go to Austin anymore without thinking about Blue – the homeless man staking his spot on 183 & 57th. We conversed with him for only a minute – enough to catch his name – but his smile and eyes and face will stick with me for awhile. I don’t even know if he would be there if we were to visit the spot again. However, the damage has been done. Three years ago, our window would have stayed up. Our eyes would have been focused on the light. The Taco Bell would be festering in the back seat uneaten & getting cold. But these past few years have wrecked us. Something happens internally when God breaks you.

It’s easier to stay in the shadows. It’s easier to listen to someone’s story & turn around and forget his pain. It’s easier and makes life a lot cleaner and nicer. But we were not meant to be safe. We were not called to be comfortable and if we stay in the shadows our light remains hidden. And at what cost to His glory?

Life is meant to be messy and risky and dangerous and absolutely beautiful. Where is He calling you? What is He asking you? What are you scared of?

The shadows are no longer a reasonable excuse.

(Prologue here)

His name is Kevin Matouse. At six feet, he’s easily a head above the rest in our class. But he’s so cute and every time he gets close to me my knees start to wobble and my hands start dripping with sweat and I start to stutter. A shaky girl with leaky hands and a speech impediment is really not conducive to the whole, “I’m trying to impress you” vibe I attempt to give off, but it’s whatever. We’ve been together for about a month, and I always promise myself I will stop acting like a complete schoolgirl when I am around him, but it never happens. He looks at me and my heart starts beating against my ribcage and the butterflies shake violently in the pit of my stomach. I just can’t help it. Chalk it up to my teenage hormones.

We’re not the most likely of pairs. I’m the weird quiet girl who carries around a Moleskin to capture ideas and phrases and quotes to escape from the blindingly boring lectures my teachers feel the need to share on a daily basis. Kevin? He’s a football player. And he plays guitar and his family loves each other and well…he’s basically my opposite. Except not. Whenever we’re together it seems as though our brains are connected. We get each other. Our backgrounds couldn’t be any different, but when he looks at me, I know I’m the only one he wants to be around.

I’ve heard he’s not the best guy around, and that he’s not good for me, but there’s just something about him. Perhaps it’s those baby blues; a girl can get lost in some baby blues, especially when they’re paired with shining white teeth and a body with muscles I didn’t even know existed. Crap. I think to myself. I’ve gone and drooled on my homework again.

I’m at home now, and all I can hear is my mom and dad arguing. An exasperated breath falls off my lips and I sigh. You would think that after twenty years of marriage, they would have figured out how to get along. I think about Kevin again and smile. We get along. We get along just fine.

Forgetting my homework, I close my eyes and dream about being Mrs. Kevin Matouse with knees that don’t shake and hands that don’t sweat and words that don’t skip.

I’m startled out of my reverie by a loud knock on the door. Obscenities fill the open silence as my dad attempts to twist the handle. I roll my eyes and lean over to switch the lock right as he bursts into the room. The stench of alcohol sweeps over me and I try my hardest not to gag. Last time that bought me thirty minutes of face slapping and a lecture about respect.

His eyes are bloodshot. His hands purple from the strain of withholding his anger. I immediately rack my brain about what could possibly have gotten him worked up. The mental checklist roars through my mind: progress report came in today – I made straight A’s. When I got home, I spent two hours cleaning the house – just like he always expected. And then the realization.

Oh.

This time, it wasn’t me.

Right behind him is my mom. My mom with some other man.

But apparently it was me because my dad starts throwing punches as soon as he’s in my room and close enough I can see his drunken eyes.

I can’t process my mom standing with some guy because the blows keep coming. The blows keep coming and he keeps yelling and my mom keeps crying. That guy just stands there.

I ask myself: What kind of person just stands there?

“You did this, you dirty little whore. You’re nothing. Nothing!”

His hands find places to grip and slap and poke that no one would ever see. There will be bruises. There is already blood.

I finally manage to break free and push my way past mom and Mr. I-don’t-have-a-voice. I really don’t know where I’m headed; I just know I need to get out.  As I run out the door, I hear my mom in the background, crying.

I can’t help but wonder if she’s crying because she was caught or because I’m leaving. My chest heaves with remorse and pain, and I fight the bile forcing itself up my throat. I will not let him win. My head turns reflexively as I shoot a furtive glance back to my house, sitting eerily silent in contrast to the raging argument heard for miles just seconds before. I give up and crumple to the grass in defeat. My body flinches against the icy green blades, but I simply wipe my cheek and pull my hoodie over my head to protect my skin from the burning sensation of frozen water against the most recent scrapes and bruises. My face crinkles in disgust. How could anyone ever want me? How could anyone ever find me attractive? I close my eyes as the tears start to fall freely, melting the ice around me.

Maybe my dad was right. Maybe I am nothing. The inner record player rewinds the events of the last hour and I start to wonder. How was my mother’s mistake my fault? Why did my father choose to take his anger out on me? I tried to push the thoughts out making me think I am nothing more than a human punching bag and reach for positive memories. The last time Kevin kissed me. Laughing with my friends at lunch. Getting my English paper back and noting the “brilliant!” scrawled across the top by Mrs. Peabody. I keep this up until my doubts are replaced with my shaky self-confidence. I am worth something. People do want me. Staring at tiny blades of grass glistening with night frost I force the mantra back and forth through my head.

I stay there for about thirty minutes. A bit longer than normal, but my father doesn’t disappoint – I know the routine: anger, remorse, forced forgiveness and guilt. I hear his footsteps before I smell the residue of his latest bottled conquest. I take a deep breath and pray for strength. I close my eyes and for a brief second pretend I’m someone else entirely.

“Stephanie?” His whisper sounds strained – like he’s fighting back tears I know will come. I motion to him with my hand, not really wanting to get up and feel the tender spots continuing to let me know their existence. His face breaks through the bushes and registers my shivering frame. His shoulders collapse and for a brief second, he buries his face in his hands.

“Oh sweetie. Oh Stephanie. I’m so sorry. I’m sorry. I promised, I know. But I couldn’t help it. Please don’t leave me. Please.” His earnest words weren’t new to my ears, but I knew his learned drunken behavior warranted this scene. It always did.  I hated this part more than any other – even the fists against skin. How can you not help it? How can you not help hitting your own flesh and blood? I didn’t get it. His arms reach to lift me off the grass and I shrug away – pain shooting up my ribs and radiating off of my knee.

“Leave me alone.” I say it without thinking. My heart stops and I hold my breath. Stupid, stupid,  stupid I think to myself – waiting for the inevitable backlash.

And just like that, a switch flips and my dad’s face blanches in anger. He stands up straight – his hands on his hips and his eyes wide with disbelief. You would have thought I physically slapped him. A sneer crawls across his face slowly and he laughs.

“What? You want me to leave you alone?” The change in behavior comes suddenly, but not unexpectedly. My father could be the poster child for bipolar disorder triggered by alcoholic stupor. His eyes darken and I grimace. He turns around and starts walking back to the house. Grumbling the whole way there about my lack of appreciation for what I had been given. “You want me to leave you alone?” he says over his shoulder, “I’ll leave you alone. Find some where else to sleep tonight you waste of space.”

I stare at his retreating figure for a half second before I realize what just happened. Without thinking, I jump up and run after him, crying the whole way.

“Daddy, daddy – no wait….please! I…I didn’t meant it.” My voice starts shaking with hysteria. I trip on a dip in the road, landing hard on my knee. Blood immediately starts forming tiny rivers down my jeans. “Please….” I whispered, broken.

He turns around and walks towards me, a smirk of satisfaction on his face. Taking the hand he offers, I wince at the force he uses to yank me to a standing position. He brings his face within inches of my own, his breath nearly knocking me over. He reaches out and grabs my arms with such brute force, tears threaten to spill out against my will. I bite my lip, fighting to keep them under control. He wrinkles his lips in disgust. “I regret the day you were born. You mean nothing to me. Nothing. You’re the worst mistake of my life; I hope I never see you again.”

His words cut to the deepest places I hid from everyone. Within seconds, my father managed to reach inside and rip open every single wound from every single harsh word that had ever been spoken to me. I had been broken before by his retreating figure. Now I am shattered.  Without saying a word, I wriggle from his grasp and turn and walk into the house, ignoring the apparent absence of my mother. I make my way to my room, welcoming the haze starting to form around my brain.

I am nothing. I mean nothing. Closing my eyes, I let the darkness sweep over me as the tears finally gain the freedom to take over. My body, exhausted from the night’s events, begs for rest, but my mind wants nothing of it. I spend the rest of the night in a comatose state – it’s not until the first light starts peeking through the corner window that I wake. With an urgency that can only be explained as lunacy, I shower and change clothes in record time.

The sunrise. I need to see it. I need to remember.

I leave the house with minutes to spare and am instantly rewarded by one of the most stunning displays of color I have yet to see. I lock the door behind me, stuff my hands in the pockets of my jacket, and begin the long walk to school, eyes glued to oranges and reds and pinks, fighting for a piece of the sky.