Eavesdropping On My Mind; Overheard Implications

likeoneangel @ 2005-03-21T13:01:00

2005-03-21T18:02:39Z

I've moved back to lore.unskewed.com

same look.
same me.

different direction.

that means, in plain english: fix your bookmarks from implied.blogspot.com, or likeoneangel.livejournal.com to

lore.unskewed.com.

likeoneangel @ 2005-01-09T19:50:00

2005-01-10T00:52:34Z

sorry to be leaving so soon, but i've gone and gotten myself another place to habitate, join me.

likeoneangel @ 2005-01-01T23:27:00

2005-01-02T04:28:02Z

A chapter of sorts, a new leaf of a kind, though I don’t see an italicized THE END anytime soon; a death of old and a murder of opportunity. I chose this, not that. I chose that, not this. I chose it with the full knowledge that should not even one go with me – my commitment still stands. Somehow when the rubber hits the road it hurts more than the daily wear it formerly undertook. Slow pain, slow death never feels quite so painful as the instantaneous blow bringing us back to the reality of manna and water. And so it ought to be. I asked for a way out of Egypt and a journey which would bring me close to Him. Will I throw up my hands, scatter the manna, and spit in the water because the trip isn’t as accommodating as I think it ought to be?

So, happy 2005. Turning over a new leaf, a new slice of manna, or forgetting both and hoping for better things, it proves to be an adventure nonetheless.

likeoneangel @ 2004-12-27T21:51:00

2004-12-28T02:52:00Z

Introducing: my little brother. Have I mentioned how much I love him?

likeoneangel @ 2004-12-23T18:07:00

2004-12-23T23:08:10Z

Aren’t there rules about things like this? Feelings like this and thoughts like these? Isn’t there a handbook full of cute anecdotes and catchy phrases and practical how-tos for situations like this? Isn’t there an old wives tale or some soothing salve to make occasions like these somehow a little more bearable, a lot more resolving? And if there isn’t, well then why not? Hasn’t this book been written a hundred times before and hasn’t history repeated itself well enough to leave well enough alone and only pick on the big guys? Or at least someone its own size? Why does it choose to remake and reinvent history with a new batch of unsuspecting prey every few years? Why us and why now?

There aren’t answers and there won’t be, I guess. Trial and error and hindsight and by accidents and mistakes and completion are all part of our lots in this journey. The moment one figures it all out is the moment another one is embarking on that same journey, apt to walk the same path and make the same mistakes.

The only thing that hasn’t changed isn’t a thing at all, but a God who delights in doing new things, looking to old paths, leading with little children and confounding those same children with the crowns of grey hair and ancient wisdom encircling them. He is a God of paradox and promise, sufficiency and surprise. He is a God worth our meager praise and our empty hands. And He is a God who takes our ‘I don’t knows’ and our ‘But waits’ and shushes them with a finger in the right direction.

likeoneangel @ 2004-12-10T23:33:00

2004-12-11T04:34:04Z

My town is my cathedral
the drifts, the pews
the sky, the ceiling

and the
stars, the glass windows
letting
light in

I breathe
I pray
in cold silence

likeoneangel @ 2004-11-27T23:51:00

2004-11-28T04:52:04Z

I had grown weary of that which powered me to go forward, forgetting empowerment and only leaning on my own will to propel. I am still weary. I find myself faint and I find myself lacking, but this I also find – faith. Faith incognito, faith blatantly staring, faith in the full moon and faith in a letter, faith in a ten percent off coupon and faith in a family I love. I found faith in a good friend, her head lying on my shoulder and my fingers playing with hers. I found faith even in a reminder of what I used to be and no longer find any pleasure in. I found faith in the things which point me to Who He is and in that I found faith in what I am not.

But instead, what kind of grace is sufficient for that.

likeoneangel @ 2004-11-14T22:28:00

2004-11-15T03:29:26Z

I walked in my apartment door tonight to find, like Alice’s journey into Wonderland, an absolute skilt [Is that a word? It probably isn’t, but for lack of a better one. . . ]. All of our furniture was on the opposite end of the room, respectively, all of our pictures were on the wrong walls, our appliances unplugged, our dishes washed, dried and put away, and the light I had left on, turned off. My mind cataloged our small group of friends and my brothers and checked them all off the list, mostly because I’d just spent the past three hours with all of them. I broadened my search in the filing system and called the only person I could think of who would have the creativity to think about doing this, the brawn to put it into action and the concern to be sure our dishes were washed, dried and put away. They were as clueless as I, minus one. I call the accused culprits and they tell me to look out my window, where they are crossing the streets doubled over in laugher.

“But did you see we did the dishes” they said.

I love small town America.

likeoneangel @ 2004-10-31T19:46:00

2004-11-02T00:47:03Z

And so sometimes one must force themselves. Today is one of those sometimes. Sometimes one must fake it though. Today is one of those sometimes. Sometimes one must look around and look up and stop looking down and thinking up and cease thinking down and today is one of those sometimes.

I wish every day was a sometime.

likeoneangel @ 2004-10-10T23:56:00

2004-10-11T03:56:49Z

There has been a lot of talk about sacrifice recently. Firewood and Isaac, favorite albums and anything but vegetables. So I confess, I’ve conjured up the best sacrificial attitude I can muster; I’ve taken stock of holdings and relinquished them to His hold; I’ve watched my intake and liberally given enough outtake, constantly making sure of my heart’s place in His hands. But tonight something was different.

I’ve gotten so used to saying “Take it all,” that I haven’t heard him say “Good, come up higher. Your load is lighter, now come up higher.” I’ve been waiting for a hand up, a level foothold, a steady cable or something and all I see is the same Lord, at the top of the same mountain, and the same journey which was there before. The only thing different is a lighter load.

Sacrifice has seemed not so cost effective in recent months, there was no return and the benefits have been low, but only because I thought that the journey would look different after I’d dropped the sacks of this world. I was wrong; the journey hasn’t changed a bit. My step can cease its trudging though; there is a difference in the weight of my baggage.

I’ll travel light, if that’s what’s necessary. I travel heavy if that’s what’s required. But this I am learning: The travel plans haven’t detoured and X still marks the spot. He is my primary goal and I’ll leave a trail of belongings, dirt and this world behind me with no thought for what is lost – it was never really mine to begin with.

likeoneangel @ 2004-10-05T18:12:00

2004-10-05T22:15:17Z

When a red maple leaf fell on my head as I walked beneath its tree, "Tag, you're it." When the boy at the counter flirted with me and the misfit staples I dropped into his hand, "Tag, you're it." When the old lady from Minerva's Cafe smiled at me and knew what kind of drink I wanted, "Tag, you're it." When the sun peeked out, over the spherical clouds, "Tag, you're all it."

I like this game.

likeoneangel @ 2004-10-04T18:54:00

2004-10-04T22:54:24Z

And if anyone had been looking they might have thought the insistant smile was due to something completely different. But it wouldn't have been. The smile was born only out of intense love for autumn, red leaves, beautiful sunsets that summer cannot compare with and the crispness which accompanies too large wool sweaters, too comfortable doc martens and too heavy bookbags containing too much homework.

I love it.

overclockworked

2004-10-03T02:39:16Z

I kept comvincing myself that after the five thirty mornings in blistering degree weather were over there would be time to rest; then after the move home and then to a new home I would stop the merry-go-round that was life; then I would convince myself that after the voluntary horse-sitting time was completed there would be time to take a break; then I stupidly agreed to another two week stint of horses, alphalfa and hayfever; I thought, once I get settled into a routine with school things will be more solidified; once all these bible studies and discipleship groups are scheduled and planned, things will be looking up; I know, I’ll buy a day timer, the proven method of organization; I even filed my life away in the bottom drawer of this desk – neatly divided between manilla folders and priorities; and still, I kept convincing myself there would be time to rest.

I kept convincing myself that today there would be time: I would get out of work at 1pm and work on bibliographies and timelines and Emily Dickinson and her love for the morbid and be generally productive. I would do all of those things, that is my purgative; that is my right. Right?

I discovered this evening, as I opened my small burgundy New American Standard Bible which I love so sincerely and yet superficially enough that I open it seldom recently, that things will not slow down. Rest will not be a friend and time will be my constant enemy. I am allotted the same time, give or take a few years, that you and he and she and them are. That is the lot of humanity, the spawn of Eve’s indulgence.

So tomorrow I won’t have time. I don’t have time to check off all the things I’d like to, I don’t have time make up more things to check off later, I haven’t even time to finish my rationed duties – this I learning though:

He has told me what is good and what is required of me. He says only act justly, love faithfulness and walk humbly with Him. That’s it.

That’s it. I have all the time in the world and that’s all I have time for.
That’s enough.

likeoneangel @ 2004-09-29T23:10:00

2004-09-30T03:11:41Z

This world is making me drunk on the spirit of fear, so when he says who will go, I am nowhere near.

All too often that is me. All too often I am the one standing timidly in the back, holding back the hand which could touch his robe if only I'd press through the clamoring crowd. Selfishness in the cloak of fear holds me back. I am nowhere near.

He calls, and I am nowhere near.

likeoneangel @ 2004-09-24T21:53:00

2004-09-25T02:06:46Z

Can you believe this? Two entries in one night. Could be due to any number of things, not the least of which are:

Things I know from my window: Men in power blue suits with green and blue plaid ties, unicyclists, drunken college boys falling on asphalt, dogs barking, sirens blaring and a warm breeze blowing my curtain to the side. Somebody pinch me.

Two perfectly fine papers written, stapled and handed in, only to realize after the fact that both had the wrong dates at the top of their MLA approved headings.

A roomate who plays the guitar in our living room. At night.

An apple green mug filled with change and evidence of a person I love.

Living next door to a Sigma Pi fraternity filled with boys who think they're men and men who act like boys. At all hours of the night and morning.

Finding that trail mix, a medley of seseme sticks, peanuts, dried cranberries, corn nuts and sunflower seeds, is the savior to my constantly upset stomach. Funny the things we never think will work and end up do.

Learning that were we to spell the word fish phonetically, according to George Bernard Shaw, author of Pygmalion, it would be spelled ghoti. I know it sounds completely idotic, but it really was quite genius of him to determine that. I love it.

Seeing my fifteen year old brother for the first time in four months. Finding that little brothers may change and grow and bulk, but little brothers will never change.

Drinking orange juice.

Having wireless internet, sitting at her mom's desk, in front of my window, seeing our moon, knowing you're reading this, feeling His love.

There may be any number of reasons for two entries tonight. I doubt that any one of those contributed, but they might wish they had.

likeoneangel @ 2004-09-24T21:41:00

2004-09-25T01:42:15Z

I lift up the skin on her hand, the age spots giving color to the hills of standing flesh. She rests her arm on the pew divider and mouths the repetitive words of mass. I watch her mouth move, a memorized reaction to a heartfelt passion. Her wedding ring is gold and diamonds are placed in a row; four, like me. I am four. I count them subconsciously and then purposely, and then once more. Her salmon colored suit is woven together and makes a tight square pattern of the same color and her white heels click against the tile floor. There is a baby crying behind us and I turn to look. She puts her hand on my arm and shakes her head no, putting a finger to her candy coated lips. I stare at them, her lips and then her eyes. She is painted, like someone I draw with my finger-paints, all red lips and dark blue eyes. It looks unnatural on her and good on the refrigerator at home.

The bench I sit on is hard, dark wood. I knock on the underside with three of my fingers, each of them making a different sound than the others. I like the sound and play a song with them, my mouth humming along. But that is too noisy she says.

And it smells. Something is burning, so I ask her, what is that burning? She whispers a word I do not know but sounds beautiful. Incense. I imagine what incense is and my imagination does it far more justice when finally I do glimpse the smelling pots on poles in front of us. I am bored.

likeoneangel @ 2004-08-19T14:53:00

2004-08-19T18:56:13Z

We talked yesterday, or rather, he talked and I did my best to listen to the hard words. It seems I am always being rebuked about something and it seems it's always the same thing.

My love for my life.

It was timely though, I have been thinking about this for the past week or so, Do not love the world nor the things in the world. If anyone loves the world, the love of the Father is not in him. For all that is in the world, the lust of the flesh and the lust of the eyes and the boastful pride of life, is not from the Father, but is from the world. The world is passing away, and also its lusts; but the one who does the will of God lives forever. 1 John 2.15-17

Actually I've been thinking about this line only The boastful pride of life. That sickening bend toward owning it and loving it, holding it and placing so much emphasis on it. I don't mean to dispel any of the beautifully carnal longings I have to live a long, satisfying and productive life, I only mean to say that pride in this life in this passage is grouped together with lust of the most disgusting kind. And while I may argue that the special interest I have in my life is due to the attempt at doing the will of God and living forever, let me say this: God has more important things to do that herd me of out of the pen of pride and into the fold of peace. I only make it more difficult on myself and others when so much stock is placed on my future on this earth.

I haven't learned it yet, fully, but I'm learning to know it. The peace of God which accompanies the knowledge that this world is fleeting and He'll do the best with me that He can [and He can], my only duty is to follow Him and forget me.

likeoneangel @ 2004-08-06T11:08:00

2004-08-09T15:06:59Z

This morning I received an email from a friend from college. It was the third of its kind in four years -- news of a death. The first was my own email on April 19th, sent to the seven people I'd bonded with during my semesters there. They drove up that evening to spend the next fews day with me and my family, mourning with those who mourned. The second was last year, sent by one of the seven whose brother was killed in an accident just as suddenly, a shocking surprise with lasting impressions. The third was this morning, one more of the seven whose mother was diagnosed with cancer two weeks ago and died in the early hours this morning.

After the initial shock settled in the pit of my stomach I emailed the only thing I know to say to someone who experiences sudden and unexpected death: Jesus be your head and heart.

Because even I still can't imagine the anguish that accompanied Christ as he walked that last night in the garden and pleaded for the cup of death to be drained some other way. I can't imagine God as He dipped his head and shook it no in reply. I can't fathom the resignation that the man who would be savior, but still only a man, had as He accepted the cost.

Jesus be your head and heart, He's the only one who knows.

likeoneangel @ 2004-08-05T11:07:00

2004-08-09T15:06:11Z

I felt it a little bit last night: the stir to write. It was a pointless subject, on the beauty of the newly manicured and made up streets of Potsdam, but a subject and a creative sentence nonetheless.

I felt it for a moment. Briefly.

A stem without petals he said. All the things you've held stock in lying around you and wondering where to go from there. He's right, you know. I think that's why this season has been so hard for me, not because there are challenges which make it rough, there always will be -- it's life, but because always before there have been the things that helped me get through them without leaning on the Lord. An herb garden represented peace, a porch swing, silence, writing represented clear thoughts and this world represented all the things I thought I was due.

So while the petals fall down around me, shriveled in their inadequecy, and I am left standing there, a bare stem, I can see the clarity of the Lord in Him alone. I don't know what the future holds, ask me and I'll tell you nothing, but this thing I do know: He alone is good enough for today and in that strength I will stand until I bloom again, this time with the fragrance of Heaven.

likeoneangel @ 2004-08-03T11:06:00

2004-08-09T15:04:21Z

My whole self is tired. Physical strength fails me and spiritual strength is waning. I see truth and know it sets free, but isn’t this prison of liberty somehow more satisfying? Isn’t there the gloating pride which sneers its distaining look in the other direction: I am walking in grace and my steps are sanctified. All the while knowing that neither death nor life separates me from Him, but disobedience might, and will, unless I right my head and face my heart in another direction. Quicken the spirit inside of me who longs to do the right things not for the good reasons, but for the goal I have fixed my eyes on.

To face eternity and look, unwavering, in that direction; to let the bounds of conscience, religion and self-righteousness loose; to set my feet upon the rock which will not be moved, even when my spirit falters and my step slows; to give and die.

That is the whole duty of man. That is the whole duty of me. I was not created to have a realization of grace and goodness, only to string along a line of unsuspecting followers who suddenly find themselves in deeper than they thought and can only point the finger at me. I don’t want to be followed if that’s the case. I don’t want anyone to look and see the blackness of my heart – even if it is covered by a pretty cloak of righteousness. I don’t want to be seen falling down and I don’t want to be known as a mistake. I want to know grace and the fullness thereof and, somehow, I want to look death in the eyes and say "Me first. What next?"

likeoneangel @ 2004-07-23T11:04:00

2004-08-09T15:03:37Z

Well, aren't we a busy bunch of written thoughts.

likeoneangel @ 2004-07-06T11:03:00

2004-08-09T15:02:19Z

I once got the feeling that life moved at a somewhat slower pace up here. But I’ve lived here for six years and life hasn’t tamed its pace; if anything it has taken on the speed of a racing engine, derailing everything it pulls behind it. Life didn’t more slowly at all, I’ve found, I am just more keenly aware of motion.

So, I am home for good. And yet, the feeling of being home that I know all too familiarly hasn’t really settled in yet. I feel, once again, torn between all the things I love and all the sacrifices I know must come and all the love He has for me and all the disgust I have for me.

Paul knew there was a tension and somehow reconciled it. Somehow he was able to reach over the thorn, and grab onto eternity. How? How can you do that and still remain unscathed by the pointed pin in the middle?

likeoneangel @ 2004-06-18T10:47:00

2004-06-18T14:47:15Z

When I was young, very young, my mum-mum had a conch shell, that, she said, if you were very silent and held it to your ear, you could hear the ocean in. I believed her of course – she summered off the cape in Jersey, if anyone knew the ocean it was her. While I was still young my grandfather had a ship in a bottle. If you took off the cork, he said, and let a breeze cover the opening you could hear the wind that had tossed that small ship into its permanent glass port. I believed him, he was a marine officer after all. Still young, my aunt strung an off white pearl onto a string and told me that the oysters had made it that way with me in mind. I believed her, she had migrated to the coast before I was born; she and the oysters must be on secret sharing terms. When I was nine years old, blond and tanned, I bottled some of the Atlantic and set it on my night table. It was the first time the ocean was my own.

Now I sit, fifteen years and a whole lot older, on a pile of rocks off the coast of Maine, watching the water, feeling the wind, hearing the ocean and the oyster shells ing beneath my feet. And finally I’m seeing in amongst all that I’ve thought of as perfection in this life is only a mere reflection of a blue sky. The only thing that makes it perfect is that it is a representation of a Holy God.

And I believe Him; He made it after all.

likeoneangel @ 2004-06-05T20:36:00

2004-06-06T00:42:22Z

The obligation to write rests almost silently in my subconscious, ever there and always lurking, but hardly desirous. The passion with which I approached the imaginative wonderings of my world has dwindled and I am happy to let others do the noticing and myself to do nothing. Someone else will always have a comment or a criticism, why should I add my own?

But I ought to, not because of an obligation or because you expect it, but because to not write, to not observe, to not feel, is to shut down those things which force me to lift up my head and believe that the goodness of God is near, even if nothing else feels like it is.

To say more is to say too much.

likeoneangel @ 2004-06-01T16:59:00

2004-06-01T21:13:34Z

“You don’t feel quite at home yet, do you?” he questioned me. I had to admit the thing that had presented itself last week and made itself more at home in me than I am in the place I call home. No. I don’t feel at home yet. I’m not sure why. Perhaps the changes make it obvious. More likely I make it obvious. I’m still me; underneath the six months of change and difference, it’s still me you see.

Unfortunately. I had hoped it would be more Jesus you could see and less me.

We are all moved in.

Since coming home I have been processing the past season of my life. I am a good church-going girl, I sit and listen attentively while the preacher’s preaches and the evangelists evangelize. I’ve grown up hearing the calamities and fame of the ‘foreign mission field’; how you will hunger for home, but hunger for souls more; how you will never appreciate electricity and hot water and fresh produce more; how you will probably get sick, but the Good Lord heals. These are the things I expect when I offer to spend a year of my life away from the things I know.

And yet the only thing I feel that the past season has taught me is the importance of the local church in our lives: the absolute essential ingredient to Christian growth and maturity. Do not neglect the fellowship; where two or three; do this in remembrance of me; the ministry of reconciliation; go and make disciples; pray without ceasing; the unity of the church. These are the things that make the water of life solidify in our beings. The things that make us go on, not simply so our lives continue to represent the holiness of the Father, but so we can communicate through relationship the Lordship of Christ to the world.

A hermit does little for the Kingdom, though his podstool may be comfortable and his greens may be fresh. I’m tired of being a closet hermit.