"Other help"

From previous post:

I have been given other help in my struggle to fathom the prevalence of evil and injustice (perhaps to be discussed in another post)

During a sermon a couple of weeks ago a most glorious light-bulb went off for me. The pastor talked about how some people's lives are filled with unimaginable suffering with little or no relief. It was different from what pastors usually say. Usually they talk about how we cope with burdens that last some months or years and don't completely upend our lives. But when he spoke that Sunday I thought about people living under persecution or abject poverty or wartime... people whose norm was abuse and degradation. In Canada in the 21st century, it's not even in the frame. But I have heard stories (vivid stories that never leave me). 

He was almost not teaching but simply acknowledging and then grieving. There are circumstances where there is absolutely no earthly balm--not even friends co-suffering. Those are harrowing, ugly places to live. 

He addressed the question I have been rolling around in my head for so long. How can I pray for the end of suffering and injustice on earth when I know God will not grant that request fully until Jesus returns? How can I ask--beg--for something that I know will not be given? I'd been afraid to even try because I didn't want God's reply of "later" to damage my faith. I didn't want to be railing on the door of my kind, present Father to find He wouldn't even open it, let alone speak to me. (How deeply that knife would cut: being abruptly, inexplicably disowned by a close family member.) That wouldn't be the reality and I know that. I know that (in Christ) there is no closed door in our relationship. But emotionally.... how do I wail and claw and grovel to ask for the end of something like sex trafficking.... and not get a yes? I can't. I can't handle the feeling that God doesn't care enough to stop it. 

The pastor didn't provide the answer and I don't even know how I "figured it out"--it's probably the case that I figured out nothing. The Holy Spirit just gave it to me: I can pray for Jesus' return. 

I can pray for Jesus' return!

I can pray for that even when I'm not contemplating human suffering. I can pray for it simply because I can't wait to be with Him. Something about asking for this and hearing, "not yet but soon," as a reply sits fine with me. My heart knows He will come in His perfect timing. My heart doesn't feel like we're being ignored or put off because He hasn't come yet. I believe He will come when He ought, and I've always believed that. 

I can pray for Jesus' return and I can rejoice that when He comes He will set everything right--and that means everything. Praise God.

Come, Lord Jesus.

Probably not what Greg expected or wanted...

I started reading a Contemporary English Version of the Bible a couple of months ago and it has been extraordinarily refreshing. 

I picked the copy off the shelf in my office because I was looking for some guidance on praying against injustice. It's got "the poverty and injustice bible" written on the front (along with the silhouette of barbed wire, trenches and explosions, and part of a child's face looking quite sad and abandoned). When I first received the book several years ago (from someone who was cleaning their office) I scoffed because 1) I don't like emotionally manipulative things, and 2) I don't like the idea of adding a lens to the Bible that really shouldn't be added. (Side note: I detest many of the Bible versions I see advertised trying to appeal to specific demographics or seasons when the very obvious motive is making money. It's like the too-many iterations of Chicken Soup for the Soul or the Fast and the Furious franchise (except the latter doesn't change for demographics). Add some designs to the cover, some devotional-esque thoughts in the margins, and a title that connects with that "hey, that's me!" voice in all of us that loves being recognised or represented and you will probably sell more than a few copies of this "new" book. It disgusts me. I think the worst I have seen is called "The Jesus Bible". THAT IS NOT INNOVATIVE. THAT LENS IS NOT MAN-MADE. I'm getting so worked up writing this. But to be clear, I'm not against any republishing of the Word, adding pretty covers or helpful devos or study notes. If you're helping people engage with the Word then do whatever you want. If you're making a cash-grab, go away. Be useful, not sneaky.)

Anyways, because this "poverty and justice" Bible I was offered contained the actual inspired Scriptures, despite the trimmings, I wasn't going to throw it away. I could never.

And a couple of months ago after much wrestling with the evil and cruelty in the world and how to fathom it, nevermind end it or pray for it, I decided I should look at this book where thoughtful people have already done the hard work of searching the Scriptures for passages showing how God views and deals with injustice. I was looking for guidance on how to pray and thought I could find passages that I might even pray word-for-word because in the face of things like sex-trafficking... I don't have any words.

Instead of flipping through to read only the highlighted passages (they're literally highlighted in orange) I started at the beginning and... I was captivated. For personal reading, work-related reading, and seminary-related reading I have exlusively used the New International Version for as long as I've ever read the Bible, probably from age 13 or 14. Somehow the different phrasing has gone so far with me.

I was absolutely captivated, interested, engaged...It felt like reading the other books of the Bible I read for the first time after I became a Christian 17 years ago. So fresh and beautiful, amazing and compelling.

"Shouldn't we be able to always read the Bible that way? It's God's Word!"
     I don't know. I feel guilty about that often. I don't know if there's a perspective I lack or something I can cultivate or conjure to come to the Bible bright-eyed and bushy-tailed every day. I bet it can't be done, because of sin and maybe simply because of how the human brain works. Maybe the Word isn't supposed to always be exciting per se.

I'm beyond thankful. I have been given other help in my struggle to fathom the prevalence of evil and injustice (perhaps to be discussed in another post?) so I don't feel in a rush to get to the orange passages in this Bible. I'm still enjoying reading Genesis afresh.

I came here to write about something profound God showed me in mid-Genesis but this post is already too long so I'll save it for another day.

The Ides of March!

It’s been a really fun March Break which seems so strange to say because the kids aren’t in school yet so it’s not really a “break” from anything. But the wonderful City of Guelph offered many special activities this week and we were able to partake in a few of them. I think there was more to what made the week so great. Doing my research and looking at all the options before the week started got me really excited and, feeling inspired, I was extra creative and energetic even when we weren’t out. This is a great blessing to me because it means I can feel satisfied with the job I’ve done, it means the kids have better days, and it means that I go home less drained. I am hopeful that I can replicate that inspiration next week, even without the help of special activities provided by the City.

I don’t think I realised this before Thursday but it was a precious delight to be able to teach B a new song that is a childhood staple. When I started singing it I assumed it was one she already knew but when I finished I looked up to see she had been watching me with fascination: her eyes somehow had a sparkle. After a pause she said, “Can you sing it again? That was really beautiful.” (That comment touched me deeply for some reason. At work I consider my voice functional but if the kids like it subjectively then that’s really sweet.)

So I sang again “I’m a Little Teapot” and she was still fascinated. Over the course of our snack time/tea party she asked me to repeat the song at least five more times and then she sang it with me and copied the actions and it was so great! I can’t put into words why I enjoyed the moment so much but I did. I feel privileged. (And later the same day I was able to teach her the Chicken Dance! She was far less interested though.)

Below are some photos of the week that do a decent job of capturing our fun.

Making slime at Michaels.

W looking at slime, unsure, at Michaels.

 That moment where the kids are dancing becasue there's music and they like one another.

The flyer I found that started my wheels turning. See Thursday's painting for context for the photo below.

I'm so impressed. I'm beside myself impressed. I think it's possible B may have a natural talent for visual art. I've seen great improvements in the last month in terms of her being able to draw what she intends AND have adults recognise it as that thing. I think I'm more surprised by this possible talent because she seems also to have a talent for dance.

Getting to that art class was abnormally stressful and frustrating. But...once we sat down and I was fully able to engage with B while she worked and learned it was a true joy. It's almost surreal that she doesn't see how different it is from most of her drawings and paintings. (Probably better if it means she won't become conceited.) I am extraordinarily proud of her work and I feel very thankful to God that B and I have the relationship where we can slip into our own little world no matter where we are.  I look forward to developing such a connection with W.

I mean... what kind of face is this?

Clutter and Throw-backs

[Originally composed on 16th February]

I hope I never reach a point in my life where I apologise for loving 90s music. Mariah Carey’s version of “I’ll Be There” is playing in the cafe right now and I’m enjoying it so deeply.

I love my husband. We’ve been married for just over four months and I think we’re very happy. It’s also been gruelling at times—which I add only to have balance in this depiction, not to complain. Both states are a blessing.

Sometimes I’m frustrated that we have so little space in our bachelor apartment. I’m frustrated that I don’t readily know what I could jettison to make space. I like to think there are things that are easily discarded or given away after they are used (e.g. greeting cards, books that I could read) that would help whittle down my amount of possessions while we still live here and I can still organise and root out things that I don’t need or want at all. But I’m not doing a good job whittling, not at all. I’ve had some success and I’m not frustrated all the time. But I want to feel settled. I want to feel like I’ve fully moved in and not like I’m constantly in the way. Other days I realise it’s not that bad. I have one obvious problem area (a suitcase yet unsorted, full of every bit and bob that I didn’t have patience or time to pack or sort properly when I moved out of my former residence), a suitcase that lies on the floor in front of bookshelf, mostly out of the way. Aside from this, it’s the feeling of no wiggle-room in closets, drawers, bins, shelves; or the feeling that things are not optimally stored or organised that weighs on me. I have muttered, “There has got to be a better way to do this,” to myself so many times in the last couple of months. But... I’m also tired most of the time these days. My jobs wear me out, and I’m starting to suspect I have the same throat infection I had a little while ago that was secretly siphoning energy off me for weeks.

And then, sometimes, I think fondly, “I like our cramped little home.” I love my husband, and I love both having and making a home with him. It could be so much worse, so much less comfortable, so much tinier, and I would still be so happy with him. It is our home. Uncomfortable, out of place, frustrated... greedy with material things. I am sure I will struggle with this for a while and I need to ask for God’s help and grace to achieve any real change. But I absolutely love my new home because it is a home with my husband.

---

Also heard during the composition of this post:
“Wannabe” – Spice Girls
“Endless Love” – not from the 90s but I still heart it deeply
“My Heart Will Go On” – Celine Dion
“Unbreak my Heart” – Toni Braxton
“Sometimes” – Britney Spears
“God Must Have Spent a Little More Time on You” – *NSYNC
“Say My Name” – Destiny’s Child
“Back at One” – Brian McKnight
“How Do I Live?”  – LeeAnn Rimes
“More Than Words” – Extreme

If I never have to start another pull mower in my life, I'll die happy.

Lately, I feel like I can’t make sense of much. I think I may have been waiting for more than a year to “get back to normal” but my “normal” doesn’t exist anymore. I know that normals do and should change but I still seem to be confused. I feel like I’m trying to balance something tall on a flutter-board in a pool. It stands up for a little while but water is never still and I shouldn’t expect it to be.

In the last several months I’ve wondered if it would help me to write. But in the last couple days I’ve been wondering if writing is necessary for me to access certain things. I feel like I can’t think or I can’t think deeply or I can’t figure out what I’m thinking. I know that sounds strange and I think that’s why I’ve dismissed it for so long. But my brain feels stuck and I’m reaching a breaking point with frustration.

The other reason I’ve resisted writing, though, is that I don’t want to come off as pretentious and that’s what everything I’ve planned to write during this season feels like. I suspect (good) writing takes patience and I feel I don’t have enough.

So, I'm going to post this, knowing that it's not very good but that perhaps I need to prime the engine. It's been more than a year since I posted and the longer I wait, the more pressure I feel to write something profound on my return (because the silence has been growing continuously). So here is my little splash.

Ten Minutes: Unbelieveable

Originally written 25 September.

Alternate title: I thought I was having a good day.

It had mostly been a good day, from punctuality, to disciplined spending, to eating with balanced nutrition, to having a productive and pleasant day at my job. Then I had an enjoyable two-ish hours with my boyfriend while we ate dinner, donated blood, and then lounged in his room for a bit

Though it wasn't planned at all, I got to hold a 23-day-old baby (the younger brother of my best gal) for maybe 10 minutes (though it felt like an hour). He is so soft and snuggly and WONDERFUL. Absolutely wonderful. He's a sweet tiny baby and I love enjoying him. I think I like him even more for how much he reminds me of his sister. I miss her so.

About 30 minutes ago, my boyfriend told me in strong language how much and how completely he loved me and I shut down. I retreated from the conversation and told him as such. I just can't have it. I can't stomach bald affection from someone who seems to see and know me well. It's too hard.

My mood continued to dampen and deteriorate to the point where I was so sad that I felt like I would throw up. My face kept falling and falling.

I decided to come write, because I felt I could, but I checked my email first. There were new messages in there highlighting work responsibilities that I wasn't remembering or didn't know about. Sigh. How long this week will be.

On top of this, I'm too tired (surprise) but now that I'm in my room I see how many things I need to do before sleep...or need to cope with putting off again.

I don't mean to be complainful. But I am trying to start building my writing muscles and this is the fodder I have today. Perhaps I will finish with a photo of my best gal. Nothing can be too dismal with her around.

♥♥♥

Ten Minutes: ...yeah, I know.

How interesting that if it's something I don't want to do or something I don't feel like doing, ten minutes seems like a very long time. Over the last couple of days I've had many ideas of things I would like to write (read: to blog) about but when it comes to putting figurative pen to figurative paper, I can't seem to do it.

Moreover, it seems I'm more likely to write about negative things (frustrations, losses, etc.) but I don't want to inaccurately portray my daily life. I think I'm more likely to write about negative things because the expression of them is helpful in terms of coping or working through. Writing about positive things is just more work! (And in this season, ten minutes of hard work writing is daunting!) Writing is not part of how I process positive things. If I write about them, it's usually to celebrate, edify, or even just to have a record of the incident. It's a description from afterward, not a realtime exploration from within, like it is with negative or unpleasant things.

So... if I want to get something on "paper" quickly each day, I end up with more negative and neutral posts. If I want to post something positive (and this is extra important to me presently because the incidence of positive experiences has been growing over the last couple of months to a level I have literally never known), I need to drum up or wait for the wherewithal sit and discipline it out. This simply has not been happening--and ironically, that makes me sad.

Ten Minutes: Third entry, two days later

I'm tired.

Lately it seems like I say that every day and sometimes multiple times in one day. Is it always true? Is it an excuse for being emotionally raw? Is it a deeper problem? I dislike how foggy it makes things seem sometimes. Even more I dislike feeling as if I don't remember what it feels like to be rested.

Perhaps what I feel lately is weary. It's physical tiredness and emotional stretched-thin-ness. (Some days you can add mental disorders to the mix.) They cycle through and impact one another. Generally, if I feel depressed or otherwise overwhelmed by negative emotions, I don't care much about getting good sleep (or nutrition, for that matter).

But... I am known and loved by a God who is refining and guiding me toward wholeness so... I guess I can hope.

Ten Minutes: A belated second entry

Originally written Monday, 4 September.

Well... I obviously haven't had much self-discipline with this exercise. This disappoints me but I'm not giving up yet. Now I see how wise it was for my friend to do a ten-minute challenge with someone else who is expecting to see their work posted on social media every day before 10pm.

My super-relaxed gams.

This weekend, I tried to organise a pseudo-vacation, something as relaxing as possible before I go (back) to full-time work tomorrow. So far it has been good, with tiny pockets of frustration but BIG pockets of surprise delight.


I booked a room at an inn in a small town an hour away from where I live and didn't plan many activities at all. (The idea was to do things that are NOT work.) The room had a soaking tub with whirlpool jets. I couldn't believe how relaxing and utterly delightful it was. I think I grinned for just about the entire 40+ minutes I was in there. Then I used a bathrobe for the first time and sat in it pamperfully, in the minimum amount of clothing, on my plush queen bed for well over an hour (maybe three?) watching cable TV (read: lame content, random gems) and working on a jigsaw puzzle.


In the interest of keeping posts un-daunting, I will save future installments of this tale for tomorrow, and days following.

Ten Minutes: Intro and First Entry

A friend of mine has begun a fun challenge or project to help keep her skills and love for visual art alive. She and a friend each draw for ten minutes (at the minimum) before 10pm every day. They post their work on Instagram with a joint account called "@10minuteclub".

I think I want to "join" the club but with the discipline of writing. Ten minutes is not daunting and unpolished sketches seem to be par for the exercise. (Anything to end the drought.)

---

Originally written on 28/07/17.

I feel an expanding sadness that's laced with weary anger. I'm frustrated by a tense situation. In the last month I've noticed a muscle or tendon on the left side of my neck that experiences sharp pain when I feel hurt by someone dear. It's the kind of hurt that I can't blunt or mitigate with other knowledge or considerations, and so it just sits and presses rottenly on my heart.

I hate feeling those pangs in the side of my neck. I hate feeling hurt by people I love and who love me. Life is hard.

It's not insurmountable and I'm not being passive. But while we wade, I'm sad and it hurts.

The Mill

Ask Me

Ask me again how I'm doing. Ask me again how you can help. Ask me again to tell you what's going on and how I'm coping. I need you to ask again, now that some time has passed--now that I have hesitated--because I need to know you meant it. I need to know you truly wanted to know and that you still want to know. You could have asked the first time because of politeness. You could have asked the first time because I forced you, because I indirectly communicated that I was burdened and needed to be asked. I'm sorry I did it. I wanted a pure ask. I want to know that you mean it. That you're here. That you care. I want to know you care without me telling you I want to know that you care.

Tell Me

Tell me you like me. Tell me I mean something. Tell me you like me as I am, for who I am. Tell me again those nice things you said. I want to hear them again. The first time can be politeness. Things may have changed since the first time, mightn't they? Tell me what you see. Tell me THAT you see. Tell me you care. Don't make me ask.

Pursue Me

Come! Come find me! Come after me. Seek me out. Show me by your initiating that I am worth knowing, worth coming after, worth finding, worth your time. Don't make me lead. Don't make me bargain or try to add to myself so that you will come for me. Wonder about me. Ask me what I'm like. Show me I'm worth fighting for, that you wouldn't be satisfied with probably getting to know me eventually, but that you must get to know me more and that you will make every effort to ensure it. Pursue me as just me.

Why Dory is now my hero.

This week has contained many pockets of deep unhappiness and/or deep sadness (not the same thing). I'm struggling with a couple of things and longing for a break or a way out. I'm reading I Chronicles right now but I wish I was reading the New Testament. I WANT TO SEE GOD. I want to see Him, I want to see Him, I want to see Him. 

I know the whole canon of Scripture is inspired and that the LORD is in I Chronicles. But at this point in my faith journey, with my heavy heart, with the thick grey clouds that obscure His face, I'm gagging to read the New Testament. And I want it to leap off the page in new clarity this time. 

It's been a hard week. Lots of stress, not enough sleep, a bunch of tears, not enough open conversations. But then.... but then there's my dear sweet two-year-old ward who can brighten any, any day. A couple months ago she would fall asleep to my singing "You are my Sunshine" and I often wondered if she would let me sing it to her because she knew how I meant it.

This week we went swimming for the first time. She's been before but never with me. I don't remember how many years it's been since I last swum but it seems my hydrophilia has not diminished one bit. It was really a wonderful time and a gem in my difficult week. It's nice that I can enjoy something which is good for me and relatively inexpensive. 

We actually went twice this week and the first time she was not nearly as cooperative as the second. In fact, when I tried to take her shirt off to get the bathing suit on, she protested and cried so much that I had to stop and just hold and comfort her. It wasn't that she screamed or that there were MANY tears but that she cried because I was doing something she didn't want me to, and it very quickly became that kind of silent crying where the kid seems to have forgotten to breathe. I can't look into that face for very long. I just can't. I don't want her to have any traumatic memories of having her will overruled in a callous or gratuitous way. So we stopped, I held her and tried to think of ways to make the prospect of changing clothes (to swim) more attractive.

After about 20 seconds she said "veh" which could mean a few things in her language. She seemed to be pointed behind me so I looked and saw that she had said "fish" because she'd spied her swim diaper. I picked it up to show her more closely and asked something like, "do you like the fish?" or "do you see the fish?" or "is that a fish on your diaper?" to sorta feel out her emotional state. And calloo-callay, a smile broke through. Oh, what a wonderful smile to see as she half-laughed saying, "yeah" because she liked the fish on her diaper. There was something about it that she enjoyed. The smile came through tears but within a few more seconds the tears stopped. B was ready to don the diaper. And she let me change her shirt as well. Thank you, Dory! (Rather, thank You, Lord!)

There were a handful of fleeting moments this week in which I saw and appreciated that we truly are growing closer, I suppose as she grows more cognitively and emotionally complex/able. This brings great joy to me. It's like we're good friends. I like to think that she knows I love her. I like to think she is getting (in spades!) what I didn't get as a child. This child is so well cherished, loved, valued by her parents and grandparents (and myself) that it's a great blessing to witness. It's nice when human relationships aren't 100% awful.

And three other incidents in which I took delight...

--When she was eating raspberries, she put each one on the end of her finger and looked at it or showed it to me before eating it. (This is extra cute because the berries are a perfect fit for her wee finger.) 

--I did some kind of strange shuffle-walk (for a reason I don't remember) when leaving her room and I turn around to catch her copying the way I was walking as she came out of the room behind me. Then she sees herself in the mirror and laughs at herself copying me. I almost died. I love that she's growing so much to appreciate quirky, funny things.

--This last one defies words. She pulled out this book (right) and told me that the big bear on the cover was me and the wee bear was her! ♥ ♥ ♥

You are my sunshine,

my only sunshine.

You make me happy 

when skies are grey.

You'll never know, dear, 

how much I love you

so please don't take

my sunshine away!

My dearest wee friend.

How wonderful you are. How utterly wonderful you are and how you have blessed, lightened, and enriched my life.

In the last couple of weeks as we've been in the middle of the umpteenth repetition of some song, game, or sound, I've thought about what I might feel when when you stop asking for them.

In the last couple of weeks, I am singing you to sleep more often than not. It's usually "Baa, Baa, Black Sheep". Every time I finish you say "more". And then the "more" gets softer and softer as you fade away. Then you ask to switch positions so that you can rest your head on my shoulder.

When the "more" gets soft enough I start cutting out one of the repeated stanzas so that the song loops tightly and you don't have space to ask for more. Then you don't have any reason to wake up again.

I tried counting the iterations one day but lost count after about 30. It's so interesting me that I just don't care. I just don't care how many times she asks for it. I love that she likes me to sing to her and that she can fall asleep to the sound of my voice and with our bodies heart-to-heart.


Some days I come close to being annoyed about how often she asks me to pick her up or the very inconvenient timing of when she wants to be picked up. Most of the time I'm happy to hold her and talk closely or smooch her cheeks/chin/nose repeatedly. But what about that day when she no longer lets me pick her up, nevermind stops asking to be picked up? My heart will certainly break at least a little. Every stage has its unique gems (and unique challenges) so what has God designed to replace being able to hold our children? Or have them sit on our laps while we read a book? Does anything compare? I guess we settle for hugs.


As you grow and develop your personality, I very much enjoy seeing your silliness and absurd ideas come out in how you play and how you use toys and non-toys.

This week and last, you've taken hold of your large birthday balloon (which has no helium but because of its very long stick, can float high off the ground), and marched through the living room and kitchen in a circle over and over while listening to the "hamster dance" techno music coming from a birthday card you were given. Yes, with everyone who's cared for you the last two weeks (grandparents, parents, yours truly) you've marched around that loop. The adult holds the card and holds your hand, you march deliberately, never looking back or looking up and with a firm grip on that ever-important balloon. What goes on in that little mind of yours? You're so weird. I love you so much.

William, Champion of "Yet".

Since I learned about William Cowper five or six years ago, I have wondered how much we might be kindred spirits. He battled severe depression for many years of his life but wrote the most beautifully arresting poetry in praise of God, and in bold declaration of Jesus' saving work.

He could extol brilliantly and could help stir others to worship, but for most of his life Cowper felt unable to own, or imbibe the truth himself. From what little I've read about him, this seems like torture. But author George M. Ella insists poignantly that, "Cowper kept his Evangelical faith until his dying day, whatever his assurance."

There is a fountain filled with blood drawn from Immanuel's veins

And sinners plunged beneath that flood lose all their guilty stains.

I'm hoping in the next little while to learn much more about him, not as if I'm searching for the "secret" to balancing crippling darkness with worshipping God and leading a productive life. I know the secret. It's just nice to see someone else execute, is all. Maybe what I'm describing is "encouragement", ha. As George Ella put it, "Even in 1792 when most of his commentators portray Cowper as being in absolute spiritual darkness, we find Cowper still writing poetry and still doing it to the glory of God." And then he provides a relevant example of the poet's work:

  'Tis judgment shakes him; there’s the fear, 
  That prompts his wish to stay:
  He has incurr’d a long arrear, 
  And must despair to pay.

  Pay!--follow CHRIST, and all is paid:
  His death your peace ensures:
  Think on the grave where he was laid,
  And calm descend to yours. 

William Cowper: the man of God’s stamp: a bicentenary evaluation, vindication, and appreciation.George M. Ella © 2000 by Joshua Press Inc.

If I understand correctly, Cowper thought about death often, looking to it as escape from his turmoil. And in a sense, he's right to long to leave this world. Romans 8 tells us that all of creation is groaning (read: wordlessly grunting its unbearable ache) as it awaits Jesus' return. It's a rotten, scummy world we live in and it's a rotten scummy heart sitting behind my ribcage.

The dying thief rejoiced to see that fountain in his day

And there may I, though vile as he, wash all my sins away.

Dear, dying Lamb, Thy precious blood shall never lose its pow'r

Til all the ransomed church of God be saved to sin no more.

But aside from jettisoning his own sin and the sinful world, I suppose Cowper was also longing to be relieved of his inner anguish, the weight of depression and the apparent inability to grasp God's truth and comfort. I understand this, too. How many times I have cried out somewhat angrily, "Why can't I see You?" or, "Where are You?". I know (intellectually) that He's there. But why isn't He (manifest) HERE? It's so painful to know His goodness as only a shadow through a dark glass. Return, Lord Jesus.

 E'er since by faith I saw the stream Thy flowing wounds supply

Redeeming love has been my theme and shall be til I die.

We stumble through and find a way. We find a way to come back, holding tightly to that wee thread of faith, on a tiny life-raft of grace. We declare that we shall persevere, and it's not true because our cracked, weak voice spoke it but because Redeeming Love has been our theme, and He is our strength.

When this poor lisping, stamm'ring tongue lies silent in the grave,

Then in a nobler, sweeter song I'll sing Thy pow'r to save.

*All names have been changed to protect privacy.

Oh Alex*... I think of you every time I park here, or every time I drive down this small street towards there.

Why wasn't I good enough? Why couldn't I keep you?

We had coffee together late on a Friday evening and we barely broke eye-contact or lost smiles. I very much enjoyed our time. You are exceptionally smart and quite clever. You are very funny, too! You surprised me a couple times and I roared in laughter.

You are more handsome than I remembered... We only met once about two months ago but over the course of our correspondence I have grown to appreciate your non-physical traits. That of course made you more handsome when I saw you next.

I liked the way you looked at me. Sometimes you watched me as I spoke and I liked that. (Am I interesting to you?) Sometimes I got a good joke in and your eyes sparkled as you laughed, almost like you were dazzled. I liked how pretty you made me feel. When you first walked in and saw me you were flustered. You stood as close as possible as we waited in line. You had even brought me a small gift and though you put zero effort into presentation the obvious effort of thinking of me ahead of time was meaningful.

You let me ask you questions about your background and work. You explained to me things about the stock market and about politics that I have never understood. You explained it well and were gracious with me though it was obvious you were surprised I didn't know. I do know that I like listening, and I do know that sometimes I deliberately go to people's wheelhouses so they can wax informative. And if I'm being transparently honest, I was conscious of making my body language show I was listening closely because I wanted you to know how engaged I was. I wanted you to know I could see you. I guess I wanted to flatter you. But I was still genuinely interested in the topics.

The more you showed your intelligence and gentleness, the more handsome and attractive you became.

I shared a small piece of my family background as an example supporting a point I was making about something you had shared... but you carved out the opportunity to extend great sympathy to me. I was struck dumb. You sounded moved and almost wounded as you told me you were sorry and said how hard that must have been for me. For all our playing around, this moment seemed sincere and without an agenda.

We stayed until the coffee shop closed. Then we walked down the small street to the spot where we had each parked our cars. You made fun of my car and I called you out which made you laugh a lot more than I expected. We talked about more serious and more personal things. We stood as close as possible, this time facing one another, not side-by-side. My arms were folded but I was perfectly comfortable. It was late and you had an hour's drive ahead of you but you still weren't making any moves to go.

I started wondering if you would ask me to me to go out again. I wondered how this fun evening would be capped off. I wondered if you'd say you "had a great time". I wondered if you would move to hug me. My fragile heart started daydreaming about how far we could go, today and in the future. I conveniently glossed that you were not a follower of my Lord Jesus Christ. As we stood there talking, somehow the topic of the parting of the Red Sea came up and your alternate explanation of that miracle was ludicrous (and mildly offensive). You really don't get it, eh? You once called the Bible "quasi-fiction". I became excited about continuing the conversation via email because I love evangelism. It lights me up.

But still...my heart wouldn't reconcile your scoffing at God and His Word with my desire to partner with you or at least to fuel your desire to partner with me. The tiny, weak voice which said, "You've been here before--" was stepped on and crushed to fine powder by the snarling, malnourished and deformed, almost inhuman voice which grunted, "NEED."


So, I left my heart with you there. Ever foolishly, I gave you enough of my heart that Friday evening so that when I got home, I was all atwitter as I wrote my own "had a great time" in an email. I was mildly surprised that there wasn't already an email from you there. Then I remembered that you had a long drive, so of course there was no email.

I went to sleep quite pleased with myself that evening. I had made a good impression. I had tricked someone. I had seemed satisfactory and interesting and maybe even attractive. The fine powder sounded like it was murmuring, "Back up. Back up. Back up." But it was crushed powder. The stompy monster held more of my attention. When it crushed the small voice, it also produced some quick-release gratification which numbed me out.

He didn't write when he got home. He didn't write the next morning. He didn't write that afternoon. Am I checking my email properly? Refresh. Refresh. Refresh. OK Saturdays are busy so maybe Sunday. How is it possible that some woman as amazing as me who made an impression like that, who made you feel like that, who gave fairly clear signals of interest...how are you not emailing her? Calling? Texting? Did you forget about me already? Were you pretending to be interested? What was that? She must not be so amazing a woman. The chilling image of my heart sitting on the floor of his car, having rolled off the back seat where he tossed it, was one I kept trying to push away. It couldn't be. It couldn't be. Refresh, refresh. I poked the monster to see if it had any of that quick-release stuff left so I could duck these feelings.


Too many days went by. The heart (which needs to be attached to a life source) was slowly shriveling and being obscured by fallen fast food bags and gym clothes. Some moments I felt like I couldn't breathe. I was too hurt and too mystified. WHY HASN'T HE CALLED?? I thought I had it. I thought I had done it. Played the part and won the prize. WHERE ARE YOU??

Too many days have passed for me to be who I thought I was to him. Not beautiful, not interesting, not worth seeing again, not enough. Not liked. Just not anything. You're not anything. I have forgotten about you. The monster was angry at having been teased. It spewed poison in its rage.

I can't believe it. And I can't believe this hurts so much. How often.


By the time the next Friday rolled around, the monster had tired itself out and the weak voice could be heard again. It said that the One who cradles my heart and died to win it, He may have interfered here. It was as if the Father had gone to the slimy teenage boy's house and told him forcefully, "Stay away from my daughter." It was like that. It was like the Father knew about the greedy, needy, deformed monster, and that His daughter needed outside protection before He could work on subduing and slaying the beast.

Picking the boy up by his collar, the man said with great control and low volume, "Stay away from my daughter," with eyes so fierce that they filled in the "or else" blanks for him. He tracks away from the house and finds the boy's locked car. Tearing the roof off as if it's paper, he pushes the passenger seat out of the way effortlessly, flinging it onto the neighbour's lawn. He finds the discarded organ and picks it up tenderly. Slowly, some colour returns.

He turns to the boy (whose leg is now wet) and states, "This is mine," as if explaining why he had the right to total a car. The boy trips over himself scrambling back into the house.


The monster puts its tail between its legs and whimpers. The small, weak voice is too kind to say, "I told you so."