Father, You are abounding in love for Your children.
You are beautiful beyond description.
You create in us clean hearts.
Your light is dazzling, blinding.
You are excellent.
You are funny.
You are gracious.
You are holy.
You are indescribable (why do I even try?)
You are just.
You are knowable.
You are love.
You are marvelous, magnificent, magnanimous.
Your mercies are new every morning.
You are outrageous!
You are phenomenal!
You are quite beyond my expections of who I imagine You to be
You are righteous.
You speak truth.
You are unyielding in Your love.
You are victorious.
You are wonderful.
You are exalted above all others.
You are yearning for Your children to come home!
You are zealous in Your love.
Sunday, November 23, 2008
Thursday, November 6, 2008
Rest
According to Mark Twain, the worst loneliness is not being comfortable with oneself.
I often wonder, sometimes aloud, to my friends, how they can possibly stand being around me for more than two minutes at a time, and why on earth would they possibly want to be my friend? What could they (you, if anybody reads this) possibly see in me? I swear, they must just tolerate me. They're stuck with me.
So, a thought.
Really, I'm projecting these feelings of inadequacy onto my friends. I'm just not comfortable with myself. I don't like myself. Period.
Borrowing from the wisdom of a good friend:
as my long-suffering friends are simply there...willing to sit and simply be with me, very strongly...how much more does our Father desire to just sit with us, to just be there, among us and between us?
And in that being there, loving me silently and persistently, loving me out of my self-hatred, desiring nothing more than to dwell among me, to communicate with me, my spirit to His.
To place my entire ravaged restless heart into His care and keeping. To enter His rest.
I often wonder, sometimes aloud, to my friends, how they can possibly stand being around me for more than two minutes at a time, and why on earth would they possibly want to be my friend? What could they (you, if anybody reads this) possibly see in me? I swear, they must just tolerate me. They're stuck with me.
So, a thought.
Really, I'm projecting these feelings of inadequacy onto my friends. I'm just not comfortable with myself. I don't like myself. Period.
Borrowing from the wisdom of a good friend:
as my long-suffering friends are simply there...willing to sit and simply be with me, very strongly...how much more does our Father desire to just sit with us, to just be there, among us and between us?
And in that being there, loving me silently and persistently, loving me out of my self-hatred, desiring nothing more than to dwell among me, to communicate with me, my spirit to His.
To place my entire ravaged restless heart into His care and keeping. To enter His rest.
London letters
So, I decided to write my first church visit paper on Holy Trinity Brompton, the church I attended in London. Which required me to dig out my London archives, so to speak. Which is, to be perfectly honest, extremely painful. I have all of the maps of all of the galleries we went to on a regular basis. When just picking them up and glancing through them, I can recall almost every step, every scramble to write down the information on the placard, every laugh at something ridiculous, every near tear shed over something excruciatingly beautiful. And then, of course, there are little things that bring great delight to my heart over the sheer silliness of it all. For instance, the Winnie-the-Pooh shop I stumbled across in Canterbury, the Mexican restaurant in Angel Carolyn and I braved over break, and the Tea Rooms some of us gals went to while in Canterbury. Then...my very first paper topic, and advice from Londoners in years past. Then there are the MAG assignments. Then there are concert programs. I even still have a train ticket from our trip to Bath! Also, also, also, the LICC's Summary of Vision & Activities. And then a map of the Imperial War Museum, which contained exhibitions regarding Crimes Against Humanity and The Holocaust. Papers I have neglected to look at. My plane ticket from Newark to London, of course. And, this makes me chuckle: actual menu items at the National Gallery cafe: smoked mackerel pate with apple, chicken liver mousse with roasted garlic, and Potted Old Spot pork with prunes. Blech! All these things bring me great joy in remembering, but also great sadness in knowing I'm not there! I felt oh so alive in London. I don't want to not live and not inhabit my time wisely here in Houghton, but I miss it oh so much. Oh so much.
I'm heart sick for the city. I realize this sounds a bit pathetic, sentimental, and perhaps like an idealization of London, but I swear that's not the case. It was not all bliss and beauty. It was flat out hard. And of course, I can't forget being pickpocketed, and my computer dying the Sunday before a paper was due.
From a relatively recent journal entry:
So what, in fact, was it that made me feel so alive in London? Was it the exchange of ideas, or the just right foggy chill? Was it the people I suffered and rejoiced alongside with? Was it the interaction with the professors, wells of brilliance, and You--spouting the wisdom of this world you deem as foolishness, yet which still defines the West today, and subconsciously works its way into us? Was it You? Learning what it is to depend on You much more radically than I think I had before? Seeing Your very active presence in the small percentage of British/international Christians? Seeing You as much bigger than I had conceived before? Being among so many people, so many beautiful reflections of You--both in number and ethnicity and language? Was it the romance of the whole thing? Was it the sheer impossibility and blessing of the whole thing? the sense of connectedness to Western history? the aesthetic architectural beauty of the city?
I'm heart sick for the city. I realize this sounds a bit pathetic, sentimental, and perhaps like an idealization of London, but I swear that's not the case. It was not all bliss and beauty. It was flat out hard. And of course, I can't forget being pickpocketed, and my computer dying the Sunday before a paper was due.
From a relatively recent journal entry:
So what, in fact, was it that made me feel so alive in London? Was it the exchange of ideas, or the just right foggy chill? Was it the people I suffered and rejoiced alongside with? Was it the interaction with the professors, wells of brilliance, and You--spouting the wisdom of this world you deem as foolishness, yet which still defines the West today, and subconsciously works its way into us? Was it You? Learning what it is to depend on You much more radically than I think I had before? Seeing Your very active presence in the small percentage of British/international Christians? Seeing You as much bigger than I had conceived before? Being among so many people, so many beautiful reflections of You--both in number and ethnicity and language? Was it the romance of the whole thing? Was it the sheer impossibility and blessing of the whole thing? the sense of connectedness to Western history? the aesthetic architectural beauty of the city?
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