Mind battles and distant travels.

You smell differently each time you return. Not of other women, but of other worlds.

I used to pretend you were my Odysseus of the open road. I told myself I was your Penelope and you were kept captive on a distant shore. It brought me a sense of purpose in the being left behind, that I was there to protect your home while you fought the gods to return. But this will be your 8th trip. Perhaps it is time to stop weaving this tapestry. I cannot bring myself to be angry, for it is your joy, and if it is yours than it is mine. But for so long I have been silent, and as the tears flow, so do my words.

You tried explaining it to me once over dishes. Your calloused hands dried each plate and you told me you could only compare it to the feeling of being chased, but by something good only what you did not know.

I know.
I know you need this. They say this is something every man needs. That it is the call. But can you hear mine?

You are good to me. You've shown me the maps. I've seen the coordinates and destinations and it's all wonderful. But I can never shake the feeling that you end up on a journey somewhere else. Somewhere beyond the logic of topography.


I read your journal before you left. Just a page. You stepped out to the garage and I came to bring you your tea. It lay there, open on the desk with it's oil stained pages. I feared confessions of a lost love. But instead there were only jotted names of towns, equations, and a quote in your scribbled penmanship "further up, further in". Further up and further in where I do not know. Only that it is where I am not. And there are no roads to get me there. Just as well I suppose. I have come to resent the Road as it is.

You hug her curves for months on end and mine are left untouched. Is this your gray eyed goddess? She is supposed to bring you back to me, not away! When she rises up to meet you in the morning does she shine more than these blue eyes? And are the tree lined paths that greet you with a thousand, welcoming limbs warmer than these two here? O that my words could take you places that she could not. Then I could go too, and we could be together-being chased by something good.

I wish you knew it was my heart at your heels. Because maybe then you'd fold up your shelter of nylon and sticks and make your destination our driveway...

You must forgive me. These accusations and lamentations are of no benefit to either one of us.These are the wave-tossed thoughts of a woman torn between jealousy and longing. I am sending them away with the wind, never to be uttered again. I beg you to forget these woes of mine and hear only this as you ride along the shore.

"We are waiting for you traveling man. Hurry home. For new adventure awaits you here. You are not Odysseus, and I am not Penelope, but there is a third character in our tale of love and leaving, and though I am terrified of one day being left times two, he needs to hear you whisper that the world is waiting. And I need you to hold my hand."






*********
Pulled together from:
biker brother and his supportive wife
Niel Peart
C.S. Lewis
drive home from MN
desire to explore all kinds of different stories and characters that have been left behind in one form or another

You are more than a sudden overnight of color and song.

These petals are the ending notes of your soulful concerto. The beginning is a symphony of sorrow and struggle few rarely stop to hear.

Next year, with scarf and hat, I will listen to you sooner. I will walk by your gray and naked limbs, with buds shut tight, and resonate with your cries of longing.

To have so much to say and no immediate outlet to say it. For visions of richness, depth, and purpose, to be contained in such a small space and for so long... How is it done without imploding inward? Without burning up? Without giving out? And how is it that the chaos of color beneath winter's armor is only let loose in millimeters, late at night without witness.

You are a rare breed. The books tell of many who have carried this burden before, only with the loss of sanity, family, or morality.

Yet each year you harbor this same,unbearable tightness in your chest and are brought through. Miraculously unscathed, just as innocent, and even more breathtaking.

Oh that this miracle were true in this heart. To trust this paralyzed state is not without meaning. To know that a flower's turn to blossom does not mean that it is mine. And to rejoice in this late night for what it is- an unobserved millimeter.

photo by Georgia B @ http://itsjusthowiseethings.blogspot.com

To say something new is by all means impossible. But to say something old in a new way...that is the stuff.

No ifs ands or...

There are numerous traits about my mother that, were I granted skybox seats to my creation, I would have wholeheartedly picked out and thrown into my gene pool. However. It seems that quite the opposite has happened and my input was neither requested or even considered. So while the most wonderful woman on the planet I know, with an overwhelming amount of gifts and talents, gave birth to me, the thing I have most seemed to have inherited is a little something we have all come to know and love as the "The non-joke joke". This syndrome makes itself known in various forms at various times. It is commonly seen in already awkward or tense situations and almost always exacerbates spectators to the point of utter confusion. To spare using an example from my predecessor, I relay the following personal events:

A patient calls the dental office in extreme pain and I begin taking the necessary steps to procure an emergency exam for this caller. Looking at the schedule, I professionally and calmly explain what times we have available for the Dr. to alleviate their pain. The patient examines their own calendar and we both agree that a 2:30 appointment would work best for both parties involved. Within seconds, and before I am able to stop myself from what I know is a classic Andrea "non-joke joke"
I am already snickering under my breath "Two thirty...hmmm...how appropriate!" To which there is silence. To which I press on. "GET IT?"
To which the incoming patient replys "no."
To which I have to sheepishly explain. "Your tooth hurts...get it...tooth hurty...2:30."

Negative 20 points as empathetic receptionist.

Yet another example occurred this past weekend while sitting in the office at church with my betrothed. A previous co-worker of his walked in and began her congratulations on our recent engagement. I smiled and calmly accepted her well-wishes in a very elegant and demure manner. All was well until she smiled and exclaimed, "You have such a glow about you!" To which I responded with an over energetic, "NOT A PREGNANT GLOW THOUGH I HOPE-HAHAHAHAH.ha." The church receptionist stopped her typing. His former co-worker cocked her head. His eyes never looked so big.

Negative 50 points as the future "youth pastor's wife"

Take also for example, what we later dubbed the "occurrence" whilst milling with the aforementioned fiance, his new boss, and Covenant Harbor's camp director. We had just finished watching an evening devotion, when the director himself extended the generous invitation to spend further time on the grounds and attend more sessions. His boss wholeheartedly agreed with this idea and extended the same offer. Before my be-loved could humbly accept I was struck yet again, this time blurting out in the highest severity level of "non-joke jokes" syndrome "Oh, no thank you. It wasn't very good tonight."

Negative 75 points as graceful socialite.

Sigh.

I would like to think this is one of those things that gets better with age. But from what I have witnessed first hand from my "mentor" in this arena...the episodes will only increase in their severity with the coming years. The truth of it is, while at first glance I would probably choose her gifts of organization, domestic genius, and culinary flare over this exclamatory awkwardness...at the end of the day, I'm just glad to have any portion of my mom in me. "non-joke joke" telling and all.

Catching up.

This past summer I had the opportunity to climb a hill...a 13,820 ft. hill to be exact. A hill that I would later discover was one of the highest known peaks in the state of Colorado. I signed up for this excursion because it was a Father/Daughter trip and also because it seemed like an adventurous idea at the time. At 2:00 in the morning however, after an already grueling climb to base camp, a meal in a bag, freezing temperatures, and no sleep, I began to second guess my decision making skills.

I remember each pain staking step as we climbed our way up and out of the forest early that morning, leaving the comfort of tents and sleeping bags behind. Once we were out of the clearing I kept my headlamp fixed on the rocky ground in front of me so as not to slip and fall in the darkness. We wanted to make the summit by sunrise but knew all too well the long hours ahead before daylight. As the first hour passed, fatigue settled in. It was windy and cold and every step looked exactly the same. I began to get discouraged.

It wasn't until we took our first water break that something changed and God taught me a lesson not just about mountains, but about our heaven bound journey in life. For the first time in the darkness, I looked up towards the summit and saw the headlights of those further on up the face, bobbing steadily and slowly towards the peak. Down below me was the same sight-a steady stream of travelers, only they were looking up at us us.

What encouragement there is in this! That in our Christian walk which so often can seem like a foot by foot crawl, that we have the wisdom and encouragement from those are much further on. While at the same time, there will always be others that have just met Christ and will be looking to us for that same guidance and hope. This is discipleship at its best and it is what makes the journey not just exciting, but climbable! Keep pressing on in your walk with Him and remember to look up, look out, and be encouraged that we are surrounded by a "great cloud of witnesses!"

Devotion(s).

Be my Sabbath.
Because everything I thought I wanted has left me empty and only wanting more.
Take me far from these speeding high ways,
rescue me from these crashing high waves.
Be my Sabbath.
Restore my soul.

Be my Sabbath.
For I find no peace and there is no shelter.
I am living in the shadows of dead lines and dollar signs,
and they daily demand more than I can give.
Be My Sabbath.
Comfort my Spirit.

Be my Sabbath.
For the path I run is long, and I cannot see the end.
When I sleep I do not rest.
My nights are full of fears and failures,
and always the eternal questions of eternity:
Is this all there is? Who will lead me home to rest?
Be My Sabbath.
Anchor my heart.

Lord Sabbaoth, You are my Sabbath.
Because your Words continually leave me at a loss for mine.
"Surely your goodness and mercy..."
Yes.
Surely, your greatest Love
meets me at my greatest need-
leaving my soul restored,
My spirit comforted,
And my heart anchored.

Boats.

One of the memories of my Dad that I have come to cherish over the years
was of a winter, Wisconsin night spent reading Tennyson out loud on the living room floor. True to form, I was assigned Ulysses for that week's English project. And true to form, I had grumbled about it over family dinner (as a poem of such lofty prose intimidates me still to this day). And, true to form, my father volunteered with a knowing smile to "check it out together".

The first twenty minutes was spent in simple repetition. I started, rather begrudgingly and in much haste while laying sloppily on my back, pages dangling in mid air. Then it was his turn. He lay the spine carefully in his lap and smoothed each side of paper. "Ulysses" by "Alfred Lord Tennyson" he read. And started through it again. He read slowly and with great care over each phrase and word. By the end, I was sitting up next to him.

"But Dad, I still don't get it."

And so we began together from the beginning, asking only questions.

"What do you think this indicates? Why did he choose that word? Is he just talking about a voyage? Why that point of view? What could that metaphor be indicating?"

And slowly but surely, as if he had known all along the exact moment I would begin to see meaning, the answers started to arrive and I began to appreciate the piece for what it was-a masterpiece of reflection, capturing the spirit of a warrior, the importance of legacy, and the promise of a beyond.

I fell asleep that night having gleaned Truth from another world and my Dad had let me steer the boat that led us there.

That was a lesson I have not soon forgotten. Anytime I am met with something in life that I "just do not get", I remember the profound simplicity of sitting up, asking questions, and searching through the Words. The answers may not always come as quickly as I would like them to, but He always does answer, and meaning always does arrive.

And so it was that my Dad (with a little help from Ulysses) taught me what it means:

"To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield."

Dad, "That which we are, we are",
and I owe so much of that to you.

Thanks.
I love you.

Jessi