for when there aren't many words left {#Furgeson}

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as far as Ferguson goes, I've been silent. 

I mean that as literally as you can get. nothing on social media. not my Facebook or my Twitter or my Instagram or my blog. nothing. period. 

silence. 

and that, for me, is odd. there are very few social issues that leave me at a loss for words. this one, however, has done exactly that. 

I am at a loss for words. 

let me be very clear here :: I have not been silent because I am white. I have not been silent because I have an unpopular opinion. I have not been silent because I am afraid. 

I have been silent because it has been one of those moments where you are confronted with something so overwhelming that it leaves nothing behind. there have been so many amazing words shared already. {you can find a couple fantastic and powerfully gentle posts here and here.} there have been arguments on both sides, strong words flung and feet planted into the dirt. the Internet is good at controversy, after all. 

what could I possibly say? wouldn't I only be adding to the noise?

because let's be honest :: there's been a lot of noise. madness. tumult. 

all I can do is pray. 

and that's pretty much exactly what I'm going to do here. 

:: 

oh God. 

bring peace. 

oh Lord,

bring comfort. 

oh Jesus. oh sweet Jesus. 

bring clarity. 

Spirit of the living God,

fall fresh. 

oh Lion, 

breathe. 

oh mighty Father, 

sustain. 

selah. selah. selah. 

laughing at Jesus

{photo by jennifer upton}

I remember the first time I went to the mission. I don't remember how old I was, but I remember it was cold. I was with my grandfather and his friend, a chaplain whose name I can't recall. I know I was young.

and I remember the first time I ever heard someone laugh at the name of Jesus.

I had never seen a prostitute before. I don't think I even knew what the word meant. but I remember her clothes :: black leather jacket, hot pink shirt that plunged lower than anything I had ever seen. I remember her hair, box-blonde with obvious dark roots, piled up on top of her head. I remember the cigarette dangling from her fingers.

she was sitting behind me on the plastic chairs. the chaplain asked, when you hear the name Jesus, what do you think? and the woman laughed and screamed, holy schmoly. effing Christians!

the chaplain kept in stride, never breaking for a second. I remember that. he pointed to her and repeated the first part of her words like a teacher accepting answers from a crowd of boisterous students, glad they were speaking at all.

I don't remember anything else that was said after that. 

I had never heard someone respond that way to Jesus. I never even knew that existed, never knew that people thought that way about Christians. I was confused, hurt, a little girl who had grown up with Jesus from day one and never even dreamed that someone wouldn't like Him. why didn't she love Christians?

{photo by jennifer upton}

and then I grew up. and I started seeing that woman more often.

obviously it wasn't the same face. but the eyes were identical. I saw her everywhere, in crowds and in churches. I found her in the supermarket. I noticed her at the post office. I realized that I was friends with her.

and now I understand that laughter. I hear it differently. it was mocking, caustic, and was laden with so much pain. it was the sound of a woman who had been slapped and kicked and knocked down a thousand times, had reached out her hand, and had someone spit in her face.

she had been given up on by the ones who were supposed to be the hands and the feet. I don't know every step she took. but she is familiar to me now. her story is one I understand, her words are ones I completely comprehend.

He didn't come for us to look down, to refuse to meet the eyes of humanity. He was born for lifting up. for getting dirty. for putting on skin and blood and pain. He touched.

can't we?

brimming with grace {165-175}

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i've started carrying Ann's book wherever i go.

it's small enough, which baffles me how a book so small can carry such a powerful weight of truth. it fits in my purse, but my soul can barely contain it all inside.

i'm full to brimming after only another four pages.

these pages were about pain. about this God we serve, and this mystery of pain.

this mystery of God's grace.

i know that we aren't supposed to know. but sometimes i want to know.

doesn't everyone?

i've been counting my blessings for several months now. i never once mentioned pain or aching hearts or any of those things that tend to make us shake our fists and scream at the skies. 

maybe i should start. 

because His grace is sufficient. His Word will not return to Him void. 

i look back now over my blackness and see where His light kept me walking when i wanted to crumple and die there. 

and so i'm learning. every sunrise brings me a lesson. and this one is hard, and i'm not sure if i like it, or even want to admit that i've been shown this truth. 

this is one i want to ignore. but i can't. 

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because i'm still counting...

• 165. God's grace. 

• 166. the darkness that brings the sun into greater brilliance 

• 167. a sky full of stars on a cloudless night

• 168. homecomings and reminders that alone is never again an option

• 169. learning Him more, deeper with time passing. 

• 170. His lessons, painful and beautiful. knowing that He knows, and i will learn when that right time comes. 

• 171. first winter's snow, just enough to dust and melt away, but more than enough to light warm Christmas candles on the hearth of my heart. 

• 172. intercession for one another. moments of hands clasped over a thousand miles as one covers the other in blankets of prayer. 

• 173. thirty thousand words

• 174. rolling pins and the aroma of fresh pie dough. 

• 175. learning to be transparent. authentic. His hands slowly unveiling me. 

i'm going to keep a pen in my hand always. i'm still barefoot in His glory, because its starting to clear in darkness as well as light.

because these windows in my soul have been washed. 

and i'm still counting

because i'm seeing clearer. 

{counting to a thousand and beyond with Ann and my sisters there}

lifeblood art

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it's a curious thing. 

to be an artist, you have to embrace mistakes. 

you have to let your pain flow like blood in a safer way than trembling razorblades from wrist to elbow, making an outlet that won't take your life but just might safe it in the end. 

 your joy like fireworks exploding from your skin and fingertips and hair and eyes and lips and soul like so much jubilant light. 

your love stream from your eyes like a river, tears that aren't unbidden but that so many just won't understand to be anything but pain rippling out and out. it's not, though. it's perfect love.

that's what it is to be an artist.

after all, how can we know passion if we have never experienced it ourselves? how can we write, sing, or leap with emotions that are unfamiliar territory?

we have to embrace our imperfections. 

every last beautiful one. 

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i'm preparing for a month of being laid bare. letting my soul pour into my novel, exposing my heart for this whole world to taste and touch and run their fingers over. 

maybe it'll do some good. 

a month of imperfections. a month of breathing art in like air. 

of being an artist

following my calling of art and passion and depth and soul. 

living here in imperfect art. 

creativity is allowing yourself to make mistakes

art is knowing which ones to keep

~Scott Adams 

Supposed

I pray your glory shines / through this doubting heart of mine / so my world would know that You…You are my strength / You and You alone / You and You alone / Keep bringing me back home. ~Gungor, You Are my Strength

I know that you're all expecting my weekly Monday musings regarding all the beautiful things in my life. 

And there are many of them, brimming just under the surface of my dreams and moments this past week.

But right now, I can't find them.

I made a resolution to myself that I wouldn't write what the world at large might want to hear. I'm going to write what's real.

My reality.

And right at this moment, my reality isn't all that beautiful. In fact, it's rather like a harsh palace of stone and ice. I feel at war with myself, with certain people in my life...and in all honesty, I don't even know what to say. 

I'm brimming over with so much confusing, and maybe a little too much hurt than I should be in this particular situation. 

It's overwhelming me. And I have no outlet...not right now. Later, I will, I'm sure...but I don't need it later. 

I need it now.

I feel horribly selfish and petty to even write a post like this one. I feel as though I have promised you poetry, sunshine, and summer breezes in every piece I write. And this one is truly more of an icy snowstorm of hurt and complicated emotion.

Forgive me? Please?

Maybe later this afternoon, after a bit of a good cry and losing myself in the silent embrace of the Word, I will come back and pour my beauties onto the page.

…but, for now, this is all I have... 

My flesh and my heart may fail, but God is the strength of my heart and my portion forever. ~Psalm 73:26

Fear not, for I am with you; be not dismayed, for I am your God; I will strengthen you, I will help you, I will uphold you with my righteous right hand. ~Isaiah 41:10

Joining in with this beautiful sisterhood on August 22nd, 2011
Expect to see more of this blessed release from time to time.
Life is hard. God is good. 

Phoenix

"God uses broken things. Broken soil to produce a crop, broken clouds to give rain, broken grain to give bread, broken bread to give strength. It is the broken alabaster box that gives forth perfume." ~Unknown

The past is a complicated thing.

So many of us attempt to erase the past...doing our best to clear our slates and start fresh every morning as we arise.

I will admit, I often find myself bogged down in regret for the things I have done in my past.

It's hard to keep from viewing myself as a broken mirror...Pandora's box, opened and poured out on the world in tears and pain...a soiled, tainted dove.

There are times I am overcome with the fear that the flames of my past have burned up any good or worth that could possibly be found in my heart.

And then I remember...

...at the bottom of the box, there still remained hope.

Gold is refined through fire.

Blood has already been poured out.

Death has already been battled and won.

My soul has already been saved.

The past is there for us to remember, to learn, and to grow. If we forget, what good has our pain been?

So, from the ashes, my hope shall spring.

I am His.

I am a phoenix.

All that is gold does not glitter,

Not all those who wander are lost;

The old that is strong does not wither,

Deep roots are not reached by the frost.

From the ashes a fire shall be woken,

A light from the shadows shall spring;

Renewed shall be blade that was broken,

The crownless again shall be king. ~J. R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings

תקומה (Resurrection)

"Now after the Sabbath, as it began to dawn toward the first day of the week, Mary Magdalene and the other Mary came to look at the grave. And behold, a severe earthquake had occurred, for an angel of the Lord descended from heaven and came and rolled away the stone and sat upon it." ~Matthew 28:1-2

I can only imagine what it was like to wake up on that morning.

The sorrow would have still be so incredibly fresh. The pain would have remained a thudding, almost crushing ache.

...if only they knew.

Because the power was brewing...the war was coming to its glorious conclusion...

...to the point that the world could not contain it for another minute longer.

The ground shook.

The guards collapsed.

The stone was rolled away.

The tomb sat cold. Hollow. EMPTY.

And the angel found his seat upon the overturned door, waiting for those who needed to hear his earth-shattered message.

"Why do you look for the living among the dead? He is not here...for He is risen, just as He said He would..."

The disbelief would have been incredible, almost impossible for their still-broken hearts to fathom...before it all turned to a powerful, measureless joy.

This morning, I felt powerful, heart-gripping joy.

I cried tears of passionate gratitude and indescribable adoration.

The tomb is empty.

Death has been defeated.

Hell has been overturned.

Death COULD NOT handle Him. The grave COULD NOT hold Him.

My King is risen!

"...she [the White Witch] would have known that when a willing victim who had committed no treachery was killed in a traitor's stead, the Table would crack and Death itself would start working backward." ~C.S. Lewis, The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe

Silence

There are two kinds of silence.

There is the beautiful kind...the whisper before the storm erupts, the wordless moments shared between two friends, the elegant emptiness of the night sky.

And then there is the heavy silence.

The silence that screams of loneliness, fear, desolation, and unspeakable sorrow and regret.

This is the most frightening sound of all to me.

And it was in this echoing silence in which the disciples lay.

Barely sleeping, barely eating.

Locked away in the upper room of an unknown house, huddled in tear-stained masses as their terrified minds replayed the events of the previous day.

The Man whom they had followed...the One in whom they had placed their faith, trust, and their entire existence...

...dragged away, beaten to an unrecognizable pile of blood and bruises, and then hung upon a splintered cross to gasp out His final breaths.

Yeshua -- their Master, their Lord -- was dead.

And they had fled.

The guilt they all must have felt...the regret and sorrow...for only John had stayed at the foot of the cross until the thunder rolled and the rocks broke into pieces.

The silence must have weighed as heavy as the stone that they had rolled over the mouth of the cave in which they had placed the beaten, lifeless body of their Rabbi.

Crushing.

Destructive.

Overbearing.

Wordless weeping, empty despair.

...but this was not the end...

...for in this silence, a mighty war was waging.

The war against Death. The war against Hell. The war against hopelessness.

For after the silence comes the storm...

...and this storm would rock the world.

DEATH

COULD

NOT

HOLD

HIM.

Silence. Broken.

Forgiven

"For this reason I say to you, her sins, which are many, have been forgiven, for she loved much; but he who is forgiven little, loves little." ~Luke 7:47

I know that this blog is prone to lean to the more poetic side of my life. Elegant musings on springtime, reflections on holidays, or just the delicate moments of my own life which I chose to make important for whatever reason.

But not this time.

This time I need to be raw. Real.

Because, to be honest, I've never realized ANYTHING like this before.

It's scary...but here goes.

I have an issue with letting myself be forgiven.

In fact, I think that I believe that I am entire unworthy of forgiveness.

That my past mistakes -- and even those I have yet to make -- have set me in a place where I past the point of being forgiven by anyone.

Not by those I love.

Not by myself.

Not even by God.

And then, I spent a nearly sleepless night, curled up with tears pouring down my face. Every time I closed my eyes, it was like a horrific home movie playing back behind my eyelids...replaying every awful moment, every moment of shame, every whisper of guilt.

But suddenly, someone switched off the projector.

There was nothing left but darkness. And the voice of Jesus Christ.

"I forgive you. You are forgiven. Your shame is gone. You have to let go. You have to let yourself be forgiven."

And so I let one finger slide off the edge.

I'm slowly letting go.

I'm accepting forgiveness.

From the ones who love me more than anything.

From the ones who could have given up on me...but didn't.

From the ones who would die for me.

And from the One who already did.

Phantom

I remember... there was mist. Swirling mist upon a vast glassy lake... There were candles all around, and on the lake there was a boat... And in the boat, there was a man. Who was that shape in the shadows? Whose is that face in the mask? ~Phantom of the Opera

Every one of us is chasing a phantom.

A masked, hidden part of ourselves that is locked away behind some elegantly created facade in which we seek to find a more absolute answer to the questions burning within us.

For some, this phantom is love. The ache to be accepted and adored just as they are...the ability to be honest and free, to feel the arms of someone around them when the moon hides behind the clouds and nightmares invade.

Perhaps it is an escape from loneliness and the fear of never being needed by anyone, spending the rest of one's days with only mocking photographs and painful scars as companions...

...or a sort of monetary stability where the worries of tomorrow fade into a blackness of foolish trivialities.

My own phantom is a burning need to know. A need to discover what there is about me that makes me special...unique...different. What would make someone want to be with me, to know more about me than just my name and what colors are my favorites? Is this surmised uniqueness even true?

These phantoms have fingers of fire that brush ours cheeks with a burning flash of ice...a voice of whispering doubt that echoes in the darkness of starless midnights. These demons haunt our minds and plague our souls with their poisonous beauty and razor-sharp comfort.

It is in these moments of solitary darkness and overcoming despair that we grasp our Light and face the blackness boldly. We face our phantoms with Truth, revealing their mysterious sort of beauty as nothing more than skeletal monsters, teeth bared to rip out our hearts.

We call them as they are: Deception, Fear, Shame, Faithless.

...turn from them. Run to the One who is Faithful, True, Honor, and who Endures Forever.

He is no phantom.

He is real.

"He has redeemed my soul from the [dark] pit; and my life shall see the light." ~Job 33:28

True

Have you ever thought about how God sees you?

...ever sat down beneath a spreading tree and gazed up at the pale blue sky, spread lightly with wispy clouds, just to think about someone for whom you care deeply?

...danced under a midnight sky, sprinkled with the delicately burning stars?

...opened a leather-bound book that has sat on the shelf for months, and felt as if you were becoming reacquainted with a long-missed friend?
That is a picture of God's delight in you.
Have you ever had a broken heart?

...wept until you were out of tears over the struggles of a beloved brother, fighting his way through old memories, stamped indelibly in his mind...if only you could free him...if only...?

...carried the secret pains of a friend on your own heart, wishing you could fight her battles for her...wishing that you could make her understand how beautiful she is...?
This is a picture of God's pain at your sorrow.

Have you ever experienced true love?
...had someone love you so much that they would give up their comfort, their freedom, their dreams, their very lives to keep you safe?

...had someone wrap their arms around you and just let you cry your heart out into their shoulder, knowing that their heart is breaking because you are suffering?
This is a picture of God's love for you.

This is a picture of my God.
True delight.
True sorrow.
True love.
"And God demonstrates His love for us in this...while we were yet sinners, Christ died for us." -Romans 5:8
"Great love has none than this: that a man lays down his life for his friends." -John 15:13