Another Field Trip

Fallen Tree by Alexandre Calame

(photo taken at Smithsonian today)

I had a field trip today. Well, it was actually a few hours of play tacked onto a business trip. My Brazilian Passport was ready and for whatever reason it has to be picked up in person at the Brazilian Embassy, so I made my way to DC this morning. Jean had the girls, so I decided to make a day of it and have some alone time. I like to do Art Museums that way. It's easier to absorb the art in solitude. So after I picked up my passport I decided to wing it and try to find the Smithsonian AND a parking garage. Quem tem boca vai a Roma. (It's a Brazilian expression that loosely translated means if you have a mouth you can find your way to Rome.)

Well, I found the nearest parking garage to the Smithsonian, which wasn't actually all that near. Normally this would not have bothered me, but I hurt my Achilles on Monday at my hip hop class and I have to walk without bending it right now. Thus, I have a fairly cumbersome limp. It doesn't hurt that much, so I decided to brave the walk.

When I have times of solitude, I try to center myself with the Lord and let all the chaos and noise fall to the wayside and really try to hear. So on the way down I drove in the quiet and tried to pray a bit. I remember asking the Lord what this time, this season is about right now. Certain symbols tend to characterize time periods for me, a few years ago it was a cross, but for the last couple of months I've been very drawn to fleur de lis. In some ways it has signified for me a period of sanctification. I acknowledged to the Lord that I know this has been a time where He is teaching me discipline. But I also complained a little bit--this whole discipline thing has been so hard for me that I struggle to feel as close to God. There are times when I just don't want to be so disciplined, and it seems like it's not worth it compared to just being with Him. It feels like its always there, reminding me of how much work needs to be done. I thought about the word devoted--I wondered how devotions came to be called that. Probably because if you were truly devoted to God you wanted to BE with Him. I want to be devoted, not feel like I have to "have devotions!" I feel a bit frustrated, because I don't feel like this is coming very easily, and sometimes I struggle to see the point of it.

I tell you this, because as I left the parking garage and began to walk to the Smithsonian, I again tried to quiet my mind and listen to the Lord. I had been trying all day, it was noon and I hadn't heard anything. I was beginning to feel a bit restless--normally on my solitude days God gives me a bit more. But as I began limping along, God finally whispered a thought into my mind. He said, "How does it feel to have a handicap?"

The question hit me right between the eyes. I knew immediately what God was saying. I was slowed down by my limp. I was awkward. It was beginning to be painful. It was hindering me.

Then I felt His tenderness. It was like He was saying, this discipline that you are learning, this process that I'm asking you to go through, learning to die to the flesh, learning to take things out of your life that you don't need, and put into your life things you do need, learning to live with empty spaces--it's so that you can move without hindrances.


I understood God's kindness. It's not because God is requiring me to be some religious zealot. Not because I'm bound by rules and regulations. Exactly the opposite. He's teaching me to be free. He's strengthening me. He's purifying me. And today, He helped me to see the motivating factor behind it all.

I've prayed for God to use me. I've prayed that He would use my life to great effectiveness. In powerful ways. But I've also prayed that God would never give me power without purity and love. I've seen the abuse of it--and I can't stand the thought of it. Those things must come first. And I know that He is answering me. But I need to continue to keep that before my eyes. To focus on the WHY. Lest I forget and think this is about food. Or simple self-denial. Or rules.


Thank you for teaching me Jesus.

Thank you for beautiful paintings.

And the people that paint them.

Space

It's interesting. I've been feeling a strange pain the last few days. But I haven't been able to put my finger on it. It's not a pervasive one. In fact I don't notice it until all is quiet. Which frankly isn't very often--my few trips alone in the car in silence; right before I go to bed or when I wake up. It's not a pain I could connect to anything in particular. Until tonight.
For the past week I've kept to my eating plan really well. (Except last night--but I had permission and needed fish, so two of my closest girlfriends and I splurged at Devons.) What's been strange is that it hasn't been hard. Not nearly as hard as it was before. Like the Lord has helped me get over the hump or something. Tonight, I didn't really feel full, and thought maybe I should eat something more, but nothing really appealed to me, so I brushed my teeth so I wouldn't graze, knowing that I would be feeling on the empty side.
Matt's been exhausted so I tucked him in early and then went to sit with Sarah until she fell asleep. I was itching for something. Like a good novel, or video, or even mindless TV. I didn't really feel like reading my Bible or studying or even praying, in an "I'm too restless to concentrate" sort of way. Being quiet with the Lord felt almost uncomfortable. Like I wanted something more but I didn't think I'd get it.
Since Sarah was taking her time falling asleep, I decided to pray through it. As I was thinking about my food, and the emptiness I felt, I realized it was the same restlessness I was feeling emotionally. Like none of the options before me were appealing, but I was still wanting something. But nothing felt better than reaching for just anything.
Finally I began to see the source of my pain. It's the emptiness. I'm being stretched in this way beyond what I'm used to. Food is just one of the ways. I've been trying to figure out the feeling of distance I have right now with God. The last few months have been almost like a dream. I can't explain to you the wonderful experiences and gifts that have been poured out on me and my family. Underlying it all is just a great sense of joy and contentment and BLESSING. But recently I've noticed a change in my spirit. Like an uncomfortableness in the midst of it--a sort of distance. Not a distance caused by sin or lack of interest. An emptying. A making of space.
What God is teaching me is the discipline of not filling the space--even with "God stuff."
Not with food, or movies, or even Bible reading.
It's actually painful.
But now that I realize it is a good pain I can lean into it and ask the Holy Spirit to use it to do His work in me.
I'm trying to sit with God in the quiet. Not expecting or waiting for Him to speak. And practicing not even trying to speak to Him just to fill space. Because now I understand what the lesson is. I'm letting all that pulls me lose its power until I am at rest and in peace in the open space. I wrote something about this a long time ago I need to dig up. Later. Now I'm going to go feel the emptiness.
It's a good thing.

Composing

Vulnerable, unedited by Bgrace

You ask me to walk in dark places

You call me to be your light

Lord, will not the darkness taint me?

Shall I not be consumed?

For my heart is corruptible

My body destructible

My spirit so vulnerable, so easily wounded.

How can I stand?

And then I heard her sing:

I will not be moved. And I'll say of the Lord,

You are my Shield

My Strength

My Portion

Deliverer

My Shelter

Strong Tower

My very present help in time of need.*

*Lyrics in italics are from

Hillsong United, You Are My Shield

Yesterday, I was standing in church having a hard time worshipping. It wasn't exactly the state of my heart. It's just that I've become hyper sensitive to worship leaders drawing us so much into their experience of worship that it's hard to have your own. There is something about it that feels manipulative. I truly don't believe that is their intention. And I'm sure I've been guilty of the same thing in the past. But it doesn't change the fact that there are moments when I don't feel like I can honestly participate. (One of the things I really appreciate about Matt, the Worship Pastor, is that he has a gift for not intruding on people's spiritual space to worship--he wasn't there yesterday.) But I digress.

So instead of singing, my thoughts turned to the conversation I was having with Matt (my husband) on the way to church. I was sharing with him about some things that have been going on at work. I really do believe the Lord has led me there, and I love my job, but sometimes the darkness I encounter when I'm there overwhelms me. Honestly, it's really hard not to get drawn into it all.

My frustration with the situation turned itself into a prayer, and the lines sort of found a rythm I wanted to remember, so I sat down, fished some paper and a pen out of my purse and became oblivious to everything else around me. I finished writing the last question and the chorus of the song being sung broke into my thoughts. I realized it was the perfect answer to the question I had just written.

My heart opened itself tenderly, realizing that the Lord had answered me and met me in a very personal way. I was able to respond in a spontaneous and deeply meaningful worship.

It reminded me of Ken's hand dance of reciprocity. He put his hands up and first moved his right hand--it was more agile, more flexibe in it's dance compared to the left hand. But the left hand was often stronger, steadier--helpful in supporting so the right hand could be free. He moved his hands beautifully and created a meaningful picture of how one hand moves and encourages a response in the other which in turn moves the other hand to respond to it. It can be a picture of people in relationship, or a picture of us in relationship with God.

I moved toward God and He responded, then He moved in response to me and created a response in me.

That's what it's like to dance with someone.

That's what it feels like when I write.

Strength

Last night, I was driving Grace home from COBALT and she was talking a mile a minute. I have never seen the child so enthralled. It was her first practice for the Nutcracker. "Mom, this was the best day of my whole life." "I made new friends, my teacher is so fun, and we learned a whole dance that was so cool." She continued, "I thought it was going to be more strict ballet, and I didn't know if I could take 2 more hours of it, but it wasn't anything like that."

I was really happy for her. I explained to her that it was because she was working so hard in her ballet classes that she was able to actually be a part of that performance. There are exceptions of course, but generally the more we are trained in the fundamentals and disciplined, the more we are prepared to move with grace and agility in the dance. When we don't need to concentrate on learning the mechanics we are freer to express our hearts with beauty and depth and lose ourselves in the music...and the music Maker.

Which brings me to the topic of food. My food.

Perhaps this excerpt from The Book of the Poor in Spirit will help explain my journey a bit.

"The first natural work is bodily, such as eating, drinking and sleeping, and all this man should purify so that he may not stray from God. Above all, one should observe measure and moderation...neither too much or too little, on the via media between excess and too little. In this measure the work remains pure and well directed in God, but without this proper balance it is neither pure nor well directed. If a poor spirit directs all his actions according to God, they are pure.

...what a man eats or drinks should be consumed in the Holy Spirit. For the heart of man ought to burn with the love of the Holy Spirit and the strength which man has taken from his meal the Holy Spirit draws to Himself and burns it in the fire of charity, making it completely spiritual. Thus, instead of a bodily force, man becomes a spiritual force which surpasses all bodily powers. Men like this are truly spiritual, and their eating is dearer to God than the fasting of others, and those who so eat actually consume God Himself. And God consumes in them what they eat and drink. To give strength to these men is to give strength to the work of God, in which God is well pleased, and in which He purifies all things in time."

I wrote a note beside this passage which says, "I want to be one to whom when God gives something to me, it is as if He were investing it directly in the work of the kingdom."

When God asked me to go "not even vegan" the only motivating factors for me were obedience and learning discipline, learning to subdue the flesh. It's been said before that if you can be disciplined in this area (eating and drinking) all others will fall into place. I don't know if that is true, but after the last couple of months I sure hope so. I have had really good stretches and then all out defections.

I've had to come to terms with the fact that I will have to grow into this and that I will have to bend at certain points. For instance, if I had all day and all the money in the world to prepare food, I could probably keep to every jot and tittle. But I don't. So if there is a trace amount of purified cane sugar juice in my granola I'm not going to sweat it.

I've also had to deal with the reality that, when you are a woman, there are certain times during your cycle where your body NEEDs that extra amount of protein. I mean, my body was actually ANGRY. It was the weirdest experience. I'm learning to listen to my body and if I need extra protein I seek the Lord about having some eggs or salmon. I've also learned there are certain things I need to keep handy to be successful--hummus (spinach artichoke is my favorite), guacamole, salsa, corn chips, whole wheat tortillas, cashews, potatoes, artichokes, tomatoes, greens, rice, pasta, (I've learned I like spinach linguine and brown rice noodles better than 100% whole wheat), and bananas. Having a big pot of homemade vegetable soup in the fridge is incredibly helpful. I can only go so long without these before I give in to temptation and make Matt take me out for honey mustard wings or drive the girls to Dunkin Donuts.

Eating fruits and vegetables isn't all that bad.It's the length of time that is hard. It's learning to allow it to become the way I eat. Not that I don't make exceptions for celebrations, but then it's hard to reign in the cravings for sugar and meat and bread and FAT afterwards. It's about self-denial. It's about emptying to be filled. And lately what I'm learning is that it's about the grace of God.

I finally got to the point a two weeks ago where I had it out with God. My flesh was SO strongly objecting to all of this and I just wanted what I wanted--to EAT. So I did. And you have no idea how well you can eat until you work for a classically trained french chef who loves to feed you and thinks you're too skinny. I ate anything and everything and as much as I wanted of it.

And you know what? I soon felt awful. "No fair." "You've ruined me to good food." I complained to God. In the midst of my frustration I prayed. I just knew I had to move forward but I didn't have the strength.

"I'm at the end of me." I couldn't do it anymore but I really wanted to--deeply wanted to. So I prayed the prayer so many have prayed at this point. "I need Your grace, Your power to do Your will."

So every day I started to do what I could do and asked the Lord to keep helping me to yield. Slowly I got back on the wagon. This week, even in the midst of all the craziness of our schedules and not having time to shop, I've been able to consult the Lord about what I put in my body and I have been able to submit. (And last night I went to Cosco and stocked up on good goodies.) I know that His grace is at work because I feel very content. My body feels right again and I have felt spiritually empowered. Ready.

Last night when I was outside Grace's dance class the Lord gave me a Divine Appointment. A mother of Grace's classmates and I began to talk and I learned she was a Christian and had a burden for street children. She asked me many questions about my understanding of what I witnessed in Brazil and I began to tell her about my burden for those abused in sex trafficking. As she talked she couldn't stop the tears from falling and she couldn't quite understand why she couldn't stop being so "emotional" about it all. I smiled gently and I said, "I don't think what you are experiencing is just an emotional response. It is touching you so deeply because the Spirit of God is calling you." She nodded in agreement but expressed a lostness about how to proceed. "He calls you and then He'll make you ready. Yield to that work in your life. Get rid of the superlatives, the distractions. Focus on Him and when it's time you will be prepared for the work He wants to do with you." It was an unusual first conversation, but it won't be our last.

Later, as I was driving home, Grace was chattering happily about how a girl named Faith was her partner in the Russian dance. I was processing my earlier conversation with a deal of wonder. I realized that I was feeling something I haven't felt in quite a while. It was strength--an inner strength of a spiritual kind. The kind of strength you feel when you know you are walking in truth and in power and the Holy Spirit is working and moving in the Kingdom through you. It's a wonderful, satisfying, filling feeling.

Maybe it's what happens when I come to the end of myself.

Maybe it's what happens when I yield.

Maybe it's what happens when the Spirit of God in me subdues the lust of the flesh.

Maybe it's what happens when my food really is to do the will of the Father in heaven.

Maybe it's what happens when Grace and Faith dance together.

Photo from festivaldance.org

Answers

I have often had days where I feel like my life is one big question. Or at least made up into a bunch of questions and one big request. Usually that request is basically,"God please do something!"

But there are those times when I shake my head in disbelief as I marvel at how God answers my prayers.

Today is one of those days.

I mean, a month ago if you told me Sarah would be potty trained before preschool I would have said it would take a miracle. And yet here we are, in the middle of our first week, and she doesn't even pee in her diaper at night.

And a month ago, when I got tired of Emily coming home crying every time she would play with her neighborhood friends, I said CHEGA! (it means enough! in Portuguese) and I was sure it would be the end of a dear friendship I had with the mother of her friend. But I PRAYED.

So at 10 PM, after I got home from work, I felt the Lord say, "Go!" and my bare feet padded their way over to my neighbor's house with 2 glasses of wine. I rang her doorbell, "Sangria or Moscato?" I asked. Then we cried together and shared together about how much we love our daughters and want what is best for them.

And you know what? I'm even getting the hang of cyberschool. And after spending all day with me, my daughters still come up to me and kiss me and tell me how much they love me. (Talk about miracles.)

And you know what else? I read today about a Russian-American who will now serve time for raping 13 and 14 year old Russian orphan girls.

God is answering our prayers to release those who are abused and to stop those who are abusing. So keep praying.

God hears. And when He hears, HE ANSWERS. He still does miracles.

Dancing

August Rodin: Dancing Figure

Tonight was my first dance lesson. My first dance class. My first dance everything. I was so glad Em was with me for moral support. Of course it doesn't help that my dance instructor, Brandon, is a guy. And that the next oldest person taking the class is way more than double digits younger than me. And that of all things I'm taking Hip Hop...though we don't don't actually do much hopping.

When Brandon came over to meet us I said,"This is Emily and I'm Entertainment."

He laughed.

But I had FUN!

I said to Em, "We can be embarrassed or we can dance. We can't do both." So we tried our best to dance. (And we were still a bit embarrassed , but at least we did it together.)

Afterward Brandon said we did great. (I'm sure he was just being nice, but better that then saying we didn't make the cut.)

Anyways, Grace was jealous cause she had to do ballet and modern dancing, but she did really well and enjoyed herself anyway. She said to me on the way home, "Mom, I want to be a professional dancer." I told her she needed to work really hard for that to happen. It wouldn't surprise me at all if it did.

Maybe 36 is too old to learn how to be a good dancer, but it's not too old to dance.

So here's to being willing to make a fool out of yourself and being willing to try something you've always wanted to do.

Watch out Brittney, here I come.

Art in the Park

Artwork by Sarah

Our first week in school was an adventure. The quiet of the Chicago coffee shop I’m writing in is soothing after such craziness. Yet, despite the intensity, I will be happy to return to homeschool on Tuesday. I’m still learning the teaching ropes, the cyber components, and how to juggle potty training my 3 year old with fourth grade math and second grade wiggles. Despite the learning curve, we managed to pack 5 days work into 4 so we could go on a field trip.
When the Lord and I were “discussing” homeschooling the girls this year, I remember complaining and saying to Him, “You DO realize that homeschool requires someone to be structured. You KNOW I’m not structured. I don’t think I’m going to be very good at this.” And as the Lord has so often enjoyed, He gave me an answer I didn’t quite know how to receive. He said, “What if doing school isn’t the most important thing for them this year?”
Nice. How am I supposed to explain THAT to the State of PA?
I understand that to mean we’ll do the bookwork we have to, but we’ll fill in the gaps with some great experiences. Like the one we had Friday. Long’s Park in Lancaster has a great Arts Festival once a year. Emily has an interest in art and I am making an effort to expose her to it as much as I can. This particular fair is not just “arts and crafts” if you know what I mean. It’s pretty high end. Many of the exhibitors come from out of state and their wares sell for 100’s and 1,000’s, not 10’s and 20’s. It’s the kind of place you don’t usually take little kids to…especially without a stroller. But we did.
The girls were actually really great, but after about 100 “please don’t touches” Mommy thought it best to take them to the Kid’s Craft Tent where they glittered, sequined, and feathered their own mask. We had lunch at the outdoor bistro, and then Aunt Jean was so kind as to get them ice cream and take them to the playground so I could browse a bit.
I made my way to the end of the strip and as I turned back, an exhibition of paintings caught my eye. I’m always drawn to art that depicts light falling on people. A particular piece drew me in. It was a painting of a girl looking at a painting in a museum and there was a Degas ballerina sculpture behind her. It was phenomenal and I was carried back to my visit to the Philadelphia Museum of Art a few months ago.
I slowly moved on through the rest of the exhibition when a small painting at the bottom of the opposite wall froze me still. A girl with brown hair in a ponytail was sitting on a long wooden bench surrounded by paintings. Her head was down and she was writing. The tears surprised my eyes and I choked out in a whisper, “That’s me.” Then I felt a bit embarrassed. The artist was now standing next to me and I felt very self-conscious, especially since I was having a very difficult time finding my composure. He was a very sweet and gentle man. I struggled to say, “I love your work. It’s not often that you look at a painting and you see yourself in it. It moves me to tears.” I apologized for being so emotional. “Thank you,” he said sincerely, dismissing my apology. We talked at length about his art, and my experience at the museum in Philly. I took Jon Smith’s card and tore myself away, not daring to ask the price.
I turned myself toward God inwardly as I walked back. “Lord, I know he didn’t paint me. But it feels like You painted me through him. Like You looked at me in that moment, and You saw me, and You saw what I was thinking, and feeling, and writing, and You thought it was beautiful enough to paint. As if You wanted to remember me in that moment. That painting makes me feel like I’m memorable to You.
I tried to compose myself as I kept walking. I was conscious of the time and felt I should be making my way back to Jean and the girls but another exhibition caught my eye. Enormous paintings of a young girl with light on her face drew me in. She was beautiful. I walked into the booth and started to read an article about the artist. Quickly I understood that Mary Jane was a Christian. I read enough to know I needed to go get my girls.
Jean took one look at me and said, “What is it?” So I sighed and told her about the girl in the museum and asked if she and the girls would revisit the two exhibitions with me.
We went over to Mary Jane’s booth. I wanted to take Emily in by herself, so the two of us made our way over to the article and I read it to her. “Em, God told her that she was to become a painter and that she was to paint people. She was to paint their hearts. He told her that if she would paint them, He would tell her who she was to paint. This woman who paints has a disability, her hands shake, and even so she still paints these beautiful pictures.”
Mary Jane had made her way over to us, and I noticed was fiddling with a video camera pointed toward us. Grace had joined me, and I turned to Mary Jane and said, “I wanted my girls to meet you.” I told her a bit about how God has been directing their paths and speaking to them about His call on their lives. “When I read the article, I knew that I they needed to hear about God guiding you with your gift.” She looked at Grace and said, “How old are you?” “Nine,” Grace responded. “When I was eight, I KNEW,” said Mary Jane. And then she spoke to the girls. “Don’t ever let anyone talk you out of what you want to do.” “There is no one like you in this whole world, no one who can do what you can do.” “God has made you very special.” Mary Jane called us over to a painting called Gently Letting Go. She read us something she had written about it, and then handed me a tissue because I needed it. I could almost taste the presence of the Holy Spirit. We talked a bit longer and I found out she is also the author of a book. She explained that the video camera is because there are people who want to make a documentary of her. “If God can use it,” I nodded to her. Mary Jane sent us off with some postcards of her paintings.
We made our way down toward the end of the fair and looked at (and tried very hard not to touch) the other exhibitions. The girls stopped to hear an artist who made his own musical instruments and suddenly I found that Mary Jane was beside me again. “I have a short break,” she said. Then in her no nonsense way she said, “What is God leading you to do?” I laughed and said, “Well, it’s been an interesting few years.” I wondered if I should tell her about the Oasis, about my burden to minister to those who have been rescued from human trafficking, but it all seemed too complicated to talk about in a short period of time. So I chose to talk instead about the rest of my calling. “I wanted to teach, but God told me to quit when I was in Seminary, He had a different kind of school for me.” She nodded and smiled knowingly. “I’ve had a lot of things spoken about my future. Right now I’m writing and I hope that I will have a teaching ministry someday.” She looked at me and said, “To whom?” I smiled inside as I said, “Well, right now it’s to my children.” As the words left my mouth I realized that I was satisfied in that. Deeply satisfied.
I rounded up the girls and we went to visit Jon Smith. He looked at the girls and said, “You know, I always hate it when people tell me I can’t touch things. When you’re an artist you have to touch in order to paint. So you can touch my paintings if you’d like. Emily and Sarah were in heaven, joyfully going around touching every painting they could reach under my nervous watch. Grace was busy looking at his paintings of dancers in the back. Then she made her way to the front and saw my painting. “Hey, Mom, look! That’s you!” she said. I know, Grace. I know. “How much is the painting of the girl sitting on the bench?” I finally asked. “Twelve hundred and fifty,” he said. I sighed. Maybe if it was six hundred. But you know what, it was worth the asking price. Maybe we’ll save up money for it after we come back from Brazil. Maybe it won’t sell by then. That is in God’s hands. The memory of the experience is in me.
As we walked back, the girls stopped again to talk to the man who made the instruments. He let them play a song with his horse hair bow, played Twinkle Twinkle Little Star for Sarah, and then she asked, “Do you know Jesus Loves Me?” He smiled and took his bow and the strings sang to all the fair, “Little ones to Him belong, they are weak but He is strong. Yes, Jesus loves me, Yes, Jesus loves me, Yes, Jesus loves me, the Bible tells me so.
So does Jon Smith
So does Mary Jane Q. Cross.
It’s gonna be a good year.

Witness

Sometimes I have experiences I don't know how to write about. I wonder if I even should write about them. They are personal experiences, are they to remain private as well?

My Dad once said that the most important thing about us is our testimony. And although for some that statement can carry a wagonload of baggage, there is something that rings very true and pure about it to me. I don't mean that the most important thing about me is my reputation. Some people interpret testimony in that sense. What I mean to say is that one of the most important things about me is what I have witnessed. My testimony is that--my account of what I have witnessed. My testimony is my story, and specifically I am referring to what I have experienced, seen, heard, and lived in relationship to God. What do I personally have to testify about Him?

I think it's important to share these things, with a sensitivity to the leading of the Holy Spirit in how and when and what we share. Seeing what others have witnessed often can help us to understand our own experiences and can also open us up to things we would not have been receptive to on our own.

But I would be remiss not to admit that it's important for me to mark these experiences in my journey. They are significant to my formation, to the solidifying of the work of Christ in me, and my blog has often functioned as an altar to me. When God did something significant in the lives of the Israelites, He would call them to build an altar. TO REMEMBER what God had done in that place.

The picture above is of one of the little altars that were built on the way up Cathedral Trail to the peak of Mount Katahdin. Most of the trail was blazed with blue paint on the rocks, but the altars are built up toward the top of the mountain for when visibility is poor. It's important to have altars you can see when things get foggy. They keep you on the trail. I'll never forget Ranger Bill saying to us, "Believe the markings, REALLY believe the markings." Even when another way seems easier, or makes more sense, or the rest of the crowd goes a different route.

Last night the Lord visited me in my sleep. Well, it was more like I became acutely aware of His presence. I didn't see Him. I didn't hear Him. But He took me back to a time that I had often asked Him to help me to understand. I was concerned that there might be something I needed to experience His conviction in. I had asked for it. I wanted to know if there was something in me that was birthing the things I was experiencing or if it truly was of Him. If it was sin, denial, blindness, deceit, whatever. Something that I needed to confess, or make right, or take responsibility for. The picture in my dream was of a white room. All I saw was the floor. It reminded me of the linoleum floor in the kitchen of the house where we lived in NJ. The room was empty. It was clean. There was nothing there I needed to take care of. Nothing I needed to confess. No conviction. No guilt. No condemnation. This was much more than a dream. It was more than an understanding that I received. More than a knowing. It was like a work He accomplished in me. It was not only that I saw and understood. He put belief inside of me that was not previously there. It was like the final word. Like He was saying, "You don't ever have to wonder about that anymore." Move forward.

A few weeks ago, I had a similar experience, except I was fully awake. I had been out and about earlier in the day and I saw someone in passing that I haven't seen in quite a while. Someone who doesn't understand me, and from what I know, does not care much for me. It was disturbing, but I suppressed it and went to bed. Sarah woke me up in the middle of the night, and I went to lie on the floor in her room until she fell asleep, the incident came back to my mind, and I decided I needed to figure out why I allowed it to bother me so much. I realized that I was feeling the pain of seeing myself by the perception of others rather than the truth. As I asked the Lord to help me to see myself in the light of truth and grace, the question came to my mind. Would I trade everything I have been through for where I am at right now, even if nothing else were ever to come of it all? I probed down into the core of my being and I suddenly realized I was experiencing something very strange. I felt something very solid inside of me. Not physically, but almost tangible. It felt like a structure, something enormous and strong and unshakable. The only thing I could even think of to compare it to was the picture of Superman's Fortress of Solitude. White Rock. But it wasn't quite like that either. I had to stop and ask God, "What is this?" I knew that whatever it was it was the most beautiful thing I had ever felt. That it was a treasure. That it was worth everything and more. That it was something that I knew,though I didn't know how, would outlast this lifetime...and then it hit me. This is eternal. This is eternity in my heart. For all that I have sown, what I have gained is eternal. It is the greatest treasure I could ever imagine, even though I have absolutely no clue what it is. For whatever reason, God gave me the ability to see it and feel it and experience it. I laid there on the floor in awe. I didn't want it to go away. I didn't want to ever forget what it was like. I wanted to know if I would always be able to quiet myself and be able to touch it again. And suddenly, the wounds from earlier in the day were gone. Completely insignificant in light of the rock in my soul.

These are the recent markings of my journey. I write about them so that they will be altars. They are the things I have witnessed. They are the things I want to remember.

What are yours?

11 He has made everything beautiful in its time. He has also set eternity in the hearts of men; yet they cannot fathom what God has done from beginning to end.

Ecclesiastes 3:11