resolutely unresolved.

I'm not making New Year's Resolutions. Because I feel like that's asking God to do something crazy.

I feel like He'll say, "You wanna write something...write THIS!"

And then, bam, I'm like, tailing somebody at the Pentecostal Evangel, writing canned pieces about Prop 8. I'm not saying, by the way, that the Pentecostal Evangel would ever give me a job. They have standards, you know.

But I've learned a lot about God this year. So I now avoid a few things.

I try not to ask specifically to "be humbled." Instead, I ask for humility, and hope that God kinda sorta knows that it'd be great if those lessons could come as gently and comfortably as possible. Because I have read what happens to Job, and that dude didn't even ask for it.

I avoid phrases like, "If You feel like it," or "I know that You'll do what You'll do, but..." Because those kinds of things, at core, doubt the power and love of God through prayer. They contain Him to logic. And I don't know anything about being God, but I like to prove people wrong, and I wonder if sometimes He does, too. That may be why I go to a Southern Pentecostal megachurch with smoke machines, and conservatives.

I never promise anything to God. There's no "I'll love You forever," and no "I'll only worship You." When I feel those things, I adore them. I can't say them, though, because I can't keep them. I don't wake up every day believing in God, and I don't go to sleep every night trusting in His son. So when my mind is sober enough to pray, I pray that He'd never keep me far from Him. I get on my knees and I pray that I'll always come back.

In that way, the past year has been like recovery. I've been learning my own limits, my errors. I've seen my fragility. Planned for it.

So, I'm not making resolutions. I don't need to. Whether or not I ever ask, God will humble me, and He will surprise me. Will He keep me?

I don't know. I'm sure there are many people who never suspected they'd fall from His presence, perhaps never wanted to.

Pray with me.

Father. Find me, always. Have mercy on me. Show grace. Though I know I will give it all to You in this moment, that promise is good for this one only. Thank you for this moment. Keep me in the next. That at the end, all moments will be yours. Each one joined with the next, and all Your doing, and all Your glory. Oh, Father.

episcopalian's smoke machine.

I walked the three blocks to the church on Christmas Eve together with my mentors, and my heart dropped a little as we stepped in. There would be no raised hands here.

The incense hit me with a wall of memories--mostly of the patchouli and pot of my junior year of college. (Erm, I never inhaled...?)

Then I thought...Hey, that thurible is like an Episcopal smoke machine. Hm, alright. I feel more at home now.

My first reactions were...displacement. I felt displaced, set apart from my own worship. I felt like a big Pentecostal fish out of its noisy waters. And I realized how deeply I've internalized the Pentecostal faith.

Because it feels so right. Because when I meet God in prayer here, with arms raised, or intellect stilled, I meet Him real. You know, one of the major themes of this faith is the bigness of God. Then again, I would presume most denominations to understand and teach of His bigness, but not necessarily of His interest. Not of the ways in which He reaches in, and twists and picks, and changes. I feel, when among fellow Pentecostals, that anything is possible in the world. That everything is possible. When with my fellow Episcopalians, I feel that God works quietly in me, by logic and law. Both are true, but neither is sufficient. It's not just that He works at large, or just that He works in private, but that He works at all!

At mass last night, I was seeking answers. Pentecostal, or Episcopalian, what am I? Do I believe in Christ as a literal sacrifice--how can I? Who is this God I believe in? How can my intellect pick apart this faith? What will happen to me?

The first reading was from Exodus--my favorite verse on God showing grace to whom He'll show grace, and mercy to whom He'll show mercy. My heart stilled with the knowledge that God was telling me of His mysteries--as though He was reminding me that no intellect knows it all.

Next a Psalm about shouting out praise. I smiled as no one shouted. And I remember how I love the honesty of Pentecostal worship.

Then, the passage from 1 John about the deception of our own perceived innocence. My tears welled, because He was speaking directly to me about all of my fears. He was answering questions raised by the people I love the most, in such a gentle way.

And I knew that the final verse would be from John, about Peter questioning John's actions. Another verse specific to my past conversations with God. What is it to me what others believe of Christ?

I was right.

How does He do that?

Tonight, I realized, joyfully, that I don't need anyone's permission to worship however I wish. No opinions required. I like lifting my arms to heaven. And I love crazy loud worship music. And my heart thrills to public confession on bended knee, and I'll cross myself when I take communion if I want to. And it will all be to Him. If I doubt the literal atonement of Christ, it'll be okay. If I need a logical proof, and I read a million books about Christology, He'll still be on the throne.

Because He is good. And He is faithful. And He made me to love Him, and I don't want to be so afraid of how to do that, that I forget to do it.

perfect and sufficient.

I cried when I got there. At mass tonight at St. John's Episcopal. I slid into the pew, in an empty, beautiful sanctuary. And I cried.

Because it felt so right. Episcopal churches, with the kneeling, and the crossing, and the reciting, and confessing--they always feel so right.

But then, I miss the Pentecostals, with their shouting, and tongues, and the way I can stand in a Pentecostal church, my arms aloft to heaven, crying in joy.

I love His churches. In that, I love His Church.

In the Episcopal church, as in others that contain more organized liturgical calendars, there are specific readings for each day of the year. Today's were...spectacular.

One after another (four in all), they came--scriptures special to me. I guessed the last before the reading even started.

Afterward, I talked to the other attender, and before I left, I faced her, "Do you believe that Christ is a literal sacrifice, an atonement for your sins?" I've visited a lot of churches, and I've asked a lot of questions, but I've never asked that one. She smiled. "A full, perfect and sufficient sacrifice."

Later I sat in the garden, in the moonlight, by the statue of Mary. The words rolled around inside of me, "Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee..."

I can pray the rosary, and I can pray in tongues, and I can pray in my own words, and I can pray with no words. But sometimes, I wish God would turn me loose.

Some people go their entire lives without casting a single thought towards Him. Maybe they go to Hell. Maybe they don't. But at least they're not always wondering, waiting to find out about this God.

Then again, I cried because in the seeking I've found these places that are so damn beautiful. Not physical spaces, though they may be pretty. But wonderful places of God, where centuries of belief and moments of absolute submission sit together in grace. Where I see so clearly this man who claimed to be a Savior. And in seeing Him I understand His divinity.

That divinity is striking. Whether I like or not, and no matter how much confusion, how painful the process--

I'm a person after God.

twisted and tempted.

"You were really twisted up inside before you left, though. Now you seem so much happier."

That was one of my mentors, commenting on my weight loss over the last year, since I moved to SOMO.

I'm not really sure how I was supposed to respond to the comment about my emotional health. This is what came out:

"Was I? I don't really remember that. I mean, I thought I was okay."

That got silently shot down. Apparently, I was miserable. Now, apparently, I'm not. There was no real satisfactory answer. I mean, I guess I could have come out with:

"Yeah, totally. I really was twisted up inside. But then I moved to the south, accepted Christ in a way you totally reject, was baptized, then was baptized, started kicking it pretty seriously with these Pentecostals, and am deciding to go to a seminary that makes Sewanee look like a liberal think tank."

Lose-lose.

So. My worlds remain stratified. And, as usual after time at home, my heart is broken.

I don't know what's real. Is it those moments in their living room, talking about how improbable it is that God would require a blood sacrifice in the form of His son? Or is it the moments in the sanctuary at James River, talking about how God sent His only son as a bloody sacrifice for me?

I don't believe in the complete literalness of all of the scripture (an entity distinct from "truth", in my estimation), so this is really just going to be a "God thing."

He knows where to find me. He always has.

yours, mine and ours.

When I was 15, my Dad told me we couldn't have a relationship any more.

He was angry because I refused to side with him on a legal issue between he and my mother. So he called me one morning. He was crying, but firm, and he said that if I refused to take his side, we couldn't have a relationship, we couldn't be father and daughter any more.

I remember telling him that wrong was wrong, and right was right, and he should just give her the cash.

He wasn't hearing me. He just kept telling me he couldn't talk to me anymore. Said he had thought that he'd raised me to be a smart, and logical person, but he'd been wrong. I was neither.

And in a moment of pure grace from God, because I don't count myself wise enough to have said this on my own, I told him that I love him. That I'm sorry that he felt that way, and I'd be loving him all the same, and waiting for him to come back. But that he should think carefully--because while I would forgive him and love him still, he couldn't get the time back. Whatever he missed, he missed.

He hung up on me.

It was my junior year in college before I could face that memory, and so many others, without a stinging in my heart. A hurt.

I don't feel the hurt anymore. I don't hold it against him. I consider it a responsibility of my faith to love him without expectation, to hope for the best in him without setting him up to fail. I don't always do that so well. Sometimes, I'm terrible.

Even if the pain is gone, though, there's a legacy left of experiences like that one.

A few months ago, I was in Jeremiah, and I read, "I will be your Father, and you will be my daughter." It was a powerful moment, and I did a double-take into my bible. The sentence actually read: "I will be their God, and they will be my people." I had made a pretty fantastical error. And no error at all.

I've known for a while that one of the reasons I've had so much trouble in understanding God as real, and powerful, and loving, is that I don't have an earthly example. My Dad loves me more than anything in the world. But he doesn't always. He wasn't wise enough to see that his bashing my mother tore apart my relationship with her (in ways that she and I are still dealing with today). He wasn't self-controlled enough to stop the pattern of adultery that tore apart two of my families. He wasn't selfless enough to love me when he didn't want to. He wasn't humble enough to admit to any of it.

I'm walking a bad line here. Writing things about him that he might not appreciate being known. But this is my life. These stories are my stories. And I believe with all of my heart that God will work through my family with raw and graceful force. He's already started.

He's started with telling me that line, "I will be your Father, and you will be my daughter." Because God will never call me and tell me that we can't have a relationship anymore. His grace, and His call are irrevocable. His love isn't conditional, and His wisdom is not optional.

Do you believe that?

I do.

empty exchange.

I pray that He guides me. That I'm always humble enough to accept guidance where He deposits it. But wise enough to see between what's left by Him, and the stuff of others. I pray for a heart that molds itself to Him. I pray that though I can't promise to always love, always obey, always understand, always thank or repent or know--He always keeps my heart close to His own.

I've got nothing to offer in exchange. No gift large enough for such a request.

And Grace lives well.

with a twist.

I was out to coffee at the JR-HC (James River Hebrew's Campus) tonight with friends, and I realized.

We were in the middle of an impassioned discussion about how to save the world, when the question of God's goodness came to me.

"Ashley, how could the overwhelming good that you're seeing--this all-out, sacrificial sort of love for others--be a product of anything but a good God?"

Well, maybe it's a manipulation. God could still be fundamentally evil, and use this illusion of good to fool the world to further hurt. Maybe He enjoys watching us slave away against the evil we can't seem to eradicate.

"Hm, okay. You're right--that's a possibility. But, think about the nature of goodness itself. Good done for a malevolent purpose isn't actually good. So, it would truly have to be an illusion. Could an evil God create a false sense of good in order to fit a grander scheme of perversity?"

I suppose. Though, we don't experience the drive of our goodness as manipulative or instrumental. We just find disgust with what is perverse, and joy in what is sacrificial--even as don't always act out these ideals. So, those parts of us are truly good. And what is truly good couldn't be created from a God whose good is only illusory. If it's not in God, it doesn't exist. If He's not good, goodness can't exist in us.

"Oooo, that feels like a misstep. In the Christian sense, evil is not in God, and yet, it exists. Hence the reason for atonement. So, let's move back. An evil God could not breed what is good, but a good God could breed evil?"

Yeah, Ash, I'm pretty sure that you're now just regurgitating a C.S. Lewis book you read several years ago.

"Shh, I'm busy. Why would it seem that the goodness in us is a proof that we must come from a good God (and not an evil one, because an evil one could not beget goodness), but that evil exists alongside a good God?"

Because evil is the absence of good. There's no space in goodness for evil. It's when goodness is no longer there, that evil is. So, an evil God as the absolute absence of good doesn't allow for the goodness I see. But, a good God doesn't necessarily bar the vacancy of itself. Evil can exist in the world of a good God. But goodness can't exist in the world of an evil God.

Vodka tonic, on the rocks, with a twist of lime, pleasethanks.

dangerous edginess.

Father.

Father.

I don't know who you are. The church says you're this one thing. Another church, another. Same with the books. You're a cruel God, or a magnificent God, a mysterious God, or no God. They don't even always talk about you. Sometimes, I can only tell what they think about you by the way they treat you. Do they pray with conviction? Do they live on that dangerous edge of true faith? Do they find you in philosophy?

I find you in the dark quiet. And I wonder if I've found you, or just the deepest part of myself.

I can say that you must be good, because sunrises are beautiful, and praying in tongues is incredible, and sex is sensational. But then why is war so terrible? Why are people dying of starvation while I write these words, and who hears the prayers of those who live dead?

You could have created anything, and this is what you chose? A diametric world? In which good can only be understood next to bad? Joy to pain? Calm to terror? Contentedness to relentless questioning.

So, are you awful, because you allow both?

You know, Lake Michigan is beautiful. When I stand on the shore, looking out across the water, I feel calm. But I know there's danger. As stunning as it is, it's also unremittingly harsh. What makes it so majestically great also makes it greatly dreadful.

Are you like that?

My heart tells me something good about you. It tells me of a tenderness, even now. It tells me of a promise.

riding solo.

I was driving home from Ozark tonight when it hit me.

"Ashley. If you don't want to believe that Christ is your savior, then don't. Keep volunteering. Keep hanging with the Christians. Keep doing whatever it is you enjoy, and just don't believe."

Right, ok. But how could I do any of that without Christ? What would that make me?

"Confused. It would make you confused."

Can I really do that? Can I just chuck all of this and go back to who I was?

"Of course you can. Look, you wanna believe that you can't know and that recycling is more important than salvation? Go for it. Do it. You don't have to do all of this."

I don't know, Ash...

"There's another option."

Hit me.

"Live this. Look, you're confused and frustrated because you feel powerless. Or something. And part of your turning from this is lashing out at God. So, instead of lashing out at Him, test Him. Put it all on the line, and see what happens. And if it doesn't work out, it doesn't work out. If your life falls into pieces, and your heart is broken, and nothing seems to make sense--then you can quit with my blessing. Go Buddhist, Jewish, agnostic, whatever. But don't half-live this and claim it's not working. Live it all. Test His existence."

I've never been a big fan of the idea of testing God.

"I really think it's okay this time."

I'm scared.

"You don't really have much of a choice. You came here, and you met God in a new way, and now you have to figure out what's real. You can't un-see what you've seen. You can't un-feel what you've felt. You can live in silence with God, but you'll know. Like you're always saying--everybody's religious. We all make the choice."

Right, but...

"You can't live in the limbo, kiddo. Not intellectually, and not emotionally. Don't be fooled into thinking that you came from paradise. You came from chaos, and it might feel as if you've just traded it up for more of the same. But you've got to trust God for all of it before you're willing to trust Him for none of it. You know."

You know, you're right.

"No, you're right."

I am right.

Right.

eggs and bacon.

One about five from the past.

own your hotness.

"See, Patrick, you've gotta own your hotness. Like, you've gotta owwwwwnn it. Why is there a stain on your shirt?"

Slurred the long-drunk philosophy professor as I walked into the kitchen.

He put his arm around me, pulling me towards him and handing me a glass of sangria. "See? We're a small, elite institution of very hot, very smart people, Patrick. Very elite, very hot. Own it," he hissed.

Later that night, "Patrick," the head of his academic department at my college and a fairly acclaimed scholar in his own right, started dancing around the house with candle sticks held to his chest (re: Madonna impersonation). Later that week, I found out that the reason he was getting such a razzing from the philosophy professor is that at the last party he had made a comment about the breasts of the philosopher's wife.

The great benefit of making it to the top of your department as a student is that you get invites to the faculty parties.

This isn't about the privileged world of high scholarship, though. It's about owning it.

Owning faith.

I'm going home in a week. Home to family, and friends, and mentors, and memories of all that was happening before I started kicking it in a Pentecostal megachurch with people who use phrases like "spirit-filled," and "hallelujah." Home to that mind that believed so certainly that though there are absolutes, we can't be certain of them. Home to the space that created me, and holds me still, in place with thoughts of "what if?" and "how can I be sure?"

I'm going home. And I'm... I'm..I'm something. I'm torn. I live in this fairytale of faith here. However bad the world is, however worried I am about the visceral realities of my life, I can show up on Wednesday at my own church or another, lift my hands to heaven, and feel His peace. No matter the problem, I can kneel and pray and meet Him and, in the most beautiful syllables, find my heart overwhelmed, restored. I can open His word, and see something astounding I've never seen before. I can believe that this "spirit-filled" existence is the life I am to lead, by right, by rule, by absolute and breathtaking redemption. My cheeks are wet--I can feel them--as I write this because I know that I'm living something beyond good.

But this is so far from the life of faith I had. It's so far from the life that some of my closest friends would have for me. I chose the phrase "spirit-filled" as an exemplar for my new friends not only because it's common, but because I'm coming to think that it is an essential, a defining feature of the difference between who I was and who I am. Between who they are, and who we are.

I don't mean that as exclusionary language (and I'm not unaware of the psychological processes it speaks to), but factual. There is something about this "spirit," and something about His filling. I used to live in a world that God had started, and let go--a world His in name, but not in Spirit. Now, I live in a world in which His spirit runs rampant. God is alive. The laws of this world bend to His will. Gravity is intact, and the rest is up to grab, friends.

I'm not sure what pastors and theologians mean when they use the phrase "spirit-filled." I don't know what it's slang for, and I may be mis-using it when I do. But I know that to me, it means power. It means believing that the Holy Spirit guides me, over and above my intellect, to do crazy things like talking to strangers in coffee houses. It means those treasured moments spent in perfect concert with a living God. It means knowing that He'll be faithful to my prayers for things like courage, and sacrifice, and humility, even as I'm knowing that I cannot trust myself to love Him always.

This isn't just an intense version of the faith of my past. It's qualitatively different. When I think of Christmas with people who know so much of me, and live a very different faith, one that seems so powerless in comparison to the faith I've seen in the Pentecostal fold, I hear my own voice...

"You've got to own it, Ashley. Own it."

His to give.

I'm angry with God tonight.

Because I don't know what's coming, and I'm scared.

When I'm scared, I lash out. And who better to lash out against than the One who could so easily light the way.

Except that-- He has. Already. He's lit the way. It's done.

I used to never get angry with God. I thought it was useless. It still is. The stakes are just higher.

I think it started with that girl in the coffee shop. That's when it escalated, anyway. After it was done, I realized...I tested God, and the proof was there: He exists. The prompting that I felt could have been just a fluke. I could have discounted it. But then the situation was too bizarrely tailored to ignore. She was too me.

I realized in those moments that I saw something crazy happen. I trusted His voice in me, did something I'd never ordinarily do, and because of that, created an experience in someone's life that has the potential to change it.

And the whole thing kinda knocked me over. When you see God do something like that (which is huge for me, and probably tiny for people who've seen Him do a lot more), you have a choice to make. God became real then in a whole new way. In a way that involves risk, and sacrifice, and more courage than I've got.

Maybe I sound melodramatic. I'm not.

So I'm angry with God tonight, because I feel like He's asking me to make a choice I can't make. I'm not His girl for all of this. I'm not courageous enough to keep believing like that, to live as though He is definitely here, to always listen to the voice that says 'Get up, go over there'. I'm not brave like that. And I'm not sacrificial like that. And I'm not humble like that.

But what's the alternative? Saying no? Saying that I don't want to see what crazy cool things He can do? That I'm not curious about how big and powerful He really is? That I don't want to help other people? That I'm okay with living outside the truth I feel?

It's a choice, but not a real one. If someone offers you the world, you take it. Especially when it's really theirs to give.

pent-up-costal

I'm feeling pent up in the church.

This is a funny discussion to have with you, because I've already had it with Him, and there's something about arguing about His existence with Him that takes the umph out of it all.

I say, "I don't know if You exist. I don't know if I can believe You love me."

And He says, "Haven't I been faithful to that day on the beach years ago? You gave it all, and then you strayed, but here you are. Haven't I been faithful?"

I don't know if that's what He really says. But I imagine that it is.

I imagine that He says, "Didn't I save you from yourself? Didn't I find you in the haze of drunkenness, more than once? You could have died in that accident with the floor-to-ceiling glass window. You didn't. You could have kept cutting after you first tried. You could have kept on with drugs. You could have been raped. But I pulled you back each time, by putting My own purposes in your heart. You stopped short because I stopped you short. Haven't I been faithful?"

Yes. Yes, Lord, You've been faithful.

I didn't stop short because I understood fully God's role in my life. I couldn't have. I didn't see Him. I saw myself, and the altar, and the possibility of something, anything better than the desperation of those moments.

But just because I didn't fully see Him doesn't mean He wasn't fully working. He was. And He is now.

So I'm feeling pent up because I'm wrapped up in the moment--the responsibilities and possibilities of my life in the church today. But God is so much bigger than today. His narrative is one of faithfulness, of seeing people through the desperation.

How would I live my faith differently, how would I approach God differently, and be with others differently if I understood that the details of today are nothing in comparison to the great story line of the gospel?

confirmation.

Do you ever get confirmations in prayer?

I feel funny using that term, and I'm not even sure what I mean by it. But do you ever feel, while praying, that God says something like, "Yes, I'll do that,"? Or, "Okay, you can believe in that"?

I do. Well, I have. Twice.

The first time was a few weeks back, in response to a prayer for a friend. The second time was tonight.

We were praying at the start of the tech rehearsal for JRA's Christmas service, and I suddenly first, felt the prayer. Second, I felt the answer. They were simultaneous. I found myself praying that people would be overwhelmed by His love and power, and as I prayed that, I felt Him tell me He'd be there. That He'd loose His presence over the sanctuary this week. The sense was so strong, and so intense, I just lapsed back into worship in my prayer.

I guess I could be crazy. Given other recent events, schizophrenia is not an altogether unlikely wager.

But, it was so real.

hands in the camera.

"Imagine how beautiful that is to God."

His words surprised me. Jolted me a little. I'd never thought about it.

I was in the production room last Wednesday night, watching the worship from the monitor feed down in the house. There's a camera that takes from right behind the first few rows, and I had commented that I think that the screen shot of lifted hands is stunning. Always. Every time I see it, my heart rests. The beauty of a hand stretched to God is simultaneously thrilling, and comforting.

"Imagine how beautiful it is to God," the director responded.

He was right. It hadn't occurred to me that however beautiful it is to me, however soothing and in whatever way it calms my soul to see--God must be so, so much more pleased. Those hands are His, after all. His in creation, and His in worship.

The conversation continued, and in it, I was reminded that it's not just my hands that belong to God. As we talked about James River, and what makes it such an incredible church I was thrown back to my first days here. Then as now, I was pulled in by the strongest sense that Christ was present amongst the people of the church. They acted with uncommon grace, and even in the absence of their words or deeds, you could just feel the presence of God.

It was a game-changer for me. And it all, constantly, insistently, pointed back to God. All of these things that were very human--great production, sharp aesthetics, professionalism--somehow managed to be solely about Christ. To point to Him. To beckon me onward toward Him.

It all belongs to Him.

When I left my first church at 15 or 16, shortly after having found it, I had the strongest sense that I had fallen in love with community, not with Christ. I promised myself I'd never do that again, and I think that I became somewhat distrustful of my own relationship to the Church because of that. But I've seldom worried about that at James River. Make no mistake, I am in love with the people. I am in love with the church. But from the beginning, both the church and its people have consistently pointed me back to Christ. My love for them flows from my love for Him, and that is the greatest gift.

When I lift my hands, I lift them to Him, and to Him alone.

My heart is relieved.

dream sequence.

I have this recurring dream.

Though the details are always different, the core is the same. I'm facing off with Satan. Or evil, I guess, is a more comfortable word. In the dream, evil is attempting to overtake me. And I always have a bible. The sequence is like this: I somehow realize that evil is with me. I grab the bible. Evil literally swirls around me, and I simultaneously pray, and announce to evil/Satan that thanks, but I'll be staying with God this time.

It's not a hero's story, though. I'm not courageous or steadfast. Well, I guess I am steadfast. But I'm terrified the whole time. I'm just so certain that God will eventually prevail, I don't give in. Apparently, my unconscious mind is much, much more certain than my conscious.

I had the dream again yesterday, during my afternoon nap. Only this time, there was more of a lead-in. I was talking to this woman, and the more we talked, the uneasier I felt. It became clear that she was evil. Then, it became clear that she was THE source of evil, I was talking to Satan. Then, Satan realized that I knew. Then hell broke loose.

A strange hell, though. It was as though I was in a tornado of ideas, and thoughts. Swirling around me. Satan was in the room with me, threatening literally to destroy me. But I had a bible with me. And I just kept saying that I knew that God was true. I knew that no matter how bad this got, I'd make it through to God.

This isn't the first time I've dreamt of Satan in that way. A while ago, I visited a very unorthodox church, and afterward was contemplating asking for a meeting with the atheist reverend to ask questions about the theology. Before I could, I had a dream about that meeting where in the middle of it, her eyes went black, and she told me that Satan was out for me. It was less than pleasant, and though I'm sure that the atheist reverend is a very nice, non-demonic person, I did not ask for a meeting in my waking life.

Nor it is the first time that my dreams have involved threats of evil. A few weeks ago, I woke up so certain that someone was in my apartment with me, I actually got out of bed and checked every corner. There had been a woman standing over me in my sleep, hissing threatening sorts of accusations at me. So incredibly real. Brains do funny things.

So I'm wondering why my funny brain is doing these things. Why is my unconscious apparently preoccupied with the idea of "Satan"? And is Satan real? Or a fabrication of my unconscious being steeped in a church that believes "he" (she?) is? Is there one localized source of evil? Is there one physical domain of evil (hell)? Who or what is Satan?

garbage in; garbage out

I feel as though I'm throwing my life away.

To my Creator, that is beyond insult. I know.

But I feel it.

I just never imagined it like this. The plan was always to get my doctorate, get a job teaching and researching at some great little school like the one I went to, and spend my life in scholarly discourse. Maybe do some great research, write some influential stuff. Live comfortably.

I didn't imagine that I'd ever feel a pull more important than the "prestige" of a Ph.D. I wouldn't have guessed that my liberal ideas of peace, and love, and caring for others would ever turn into something more real, a moral imperative. And I certainly couldn't have known that helping others know God would be one of the things I'd consider "caring."

So the change in plans, the consideration of seminary and my eschewing of further graduate studies in psychology, feels like apostasy. Like I'm throwing away everything that I am, and all of the safety of who I thought I'd be.

And I keep thinking...I really hope I'm not wrong about God. Because, this is beyond a question of "meaning" for me. It's one thing to place your life into a greater grid because you need to give it some significance. It's another to make major choices on the basis of a truth that compels an action. A lifetime of actions.

If I'm wrong about God, I really am throwing my life away.

reality check.

I'm so completely taken with His power. With the absolute reality of God.

Sometimes, my thoughts about God can be a little...academic. I believe in Him. I love Him. But I don't think I always fully understand Him. (Who does?)

So last week was really something else.

I talked to a stranger about Christ. And afterward it occurred to me--she was so perfectly pitched to my area of knowledge, and heart. Even if I'd doubted the voice that told me to speak to her, even if I'd said that I was just imagining that, making it up, I couldn't have made up how incredible it was that I'm exactly the kind of person to whom she would listen. And I just happened to be sitting there. And because I listened to that possibly-imagined voice, we had a conversation that she might never have otherwise had.

In that moment of realization, I shook, quite literally. Because I realized that God is real. Friends, He doesn't need my weak academic arguments, and logical proofs. He is real, and terrifyingly powerful, and surely, my sins are forgiven.

He's real.

Sometimes, I start to worry that my prayers are in vain. That I'm just playing make-believe in church. Doing whatever I can to make the world seem more comfortable.

But last week, I prayed for a book, on the heels of a weekend that left my faith rocked and uncertain, and I got a book about people of faith coming from my hometown, actually coming through the church at which I first learned of Christ. I know that sounds silly, but when I realized, when it occurred to me that this book was more than just something interesting--I dropped it. Like a hot potato. Because what are the chances? Because I don't physically hear the voice of God, but when I see Him working so specifically, so close to me...I'm terrified. God is real.

I see things like that, and I think that nothing is impossible. That this is all real. That what these people are saying is true. That I have nothing to fear. Because He is real.

If He weren't real, it would foolish to go to seminary. To give generously. To pray ardently. To love lavishly. To live in discipline. But since He is real, I've seen it now, those things not only live far from foolishness, but very, very close to necessity.

He's real.

Thank You.

I have three minutes before my family comes in to whisk me away to the crazy.

No time for eloquence. Just straight up thanks.

I am so thankful for each person who has taken the time to read this blog, and, known to me or not, travel a small part of my journey with me. I'm so thankful for the people who've written me, emailed me, or commented on these pages, willing to share your wisdom, and love, and joy. I'm beyond thankful.

I think a lot of people think of blogs as these launching pads to big things--to book deals, and writing jobs, and snapshots with Jon Acuff.

This blog never really had that intent. And it still doesn't. Because the people who've read it have launched me to so much more--to friendships, and to hope, and above all, to Christ.

I'm so so thankful.

Thank You.

wild joy.

I did something crazy. I mean, like, something really out there. You might not believe it. I barely believe it.

I talked to strangers about Christ. I did. I felt God telling me to go sit with them. And then to stay sitting with them. Then to speak with them.

Oh holy crap, it looks even crazier written out like that.

Ok, breathing. Breathing.

So I shared openly. I talked about the struggles I had moving into this culture, and how I'm learning to overcome them. About my relationships with other Christians, and how my negativity towards them had kept me from Christ. I talked about the logic of grace, and I told them about how one of the defining features for me, of Christianity, is that it deals with the discrepancy between what I know I ought to be, and what I am. I talked about the love of Christ that helps me to bridge that gap. I told them about how we all have faith, and God will bring us to truth, if we're willing to be truly honest with ourselves. I pointed out that everyone lives by faith. I suggested that we have to trust not only our intellect, but also the prompting of our hearts. And I pointed out that we all seem to have innate desires for two things: love and justice--two desires perfectly matched for the narrative of Christ.

It wasn't just me talking--all of this was evenly interspersed throughout an hour and a half of conversation, of pretty wonderful back-and-forth. But it all got said.

Along with a lot of other stuff. We chattered about chick flicks, and Palin's new tv show, and pastry. It was good.

After it all, I got to my car. And flipped out.

I'm not the kind of person who says, "Oh yes, God, I'll go over there to those strangers, and spill my guts about Christ." In fact, at the start, I thought for a couple of minutes about just staying where I was, about ignoring the directive. Like, "Big G, this is Hebrew's--you know you got some other peeps up in here who could take care of this noise." This place might as well be on the James River campus.

But I did it. I thought, and I then I just realized in that moment, that I didn't want to be that girl who was always saying no to God. I want to be that one who follows instructions, and sees these crazy things happening in peoples' lives.

Afterwards, through the freaking out, it occurred to me that this is how obedience works. Sometimes, I read stories of awesome things happening in peoples' lives, and I realize that the reason it all worked out is because all of the people involved were obedient. Not that God needs us, He could just make it happen, but He uses us. And so I hear or read stories, and I note that it's obedience that turned the story.

And here.. it happened. In my own life, I saw it happen. I was actually not the first person talking about Christ to these people that night. And had I decided to stay where I was, they would have left with a much different view of Christ and Christians. But I said yes, and because of that, something is now in their hearts that could change everything. Could wipe out the hurt, the fear, and uncertainty. Could bring wild joy.

That's humbling. It's terrifying, actually. And humbling. And also a little exhilarating. And more terrifying. Still humbling.

And beautiful.

fairytale fears.

Not a great morning for me, for church. But a beautiful morning for a walk. So walk, I did. Three times around the entire church, with the door greeters staring at me as I went. Putting off the inevitable. The more I walked, I less I felt I could go in. I had to go in anyway--I was helping out in production during second service. But each step seemed to make it harder to force myself into the doors. It didn't get any easier on the inside. I spent the morning on the verge of tears. One unlucky red carpet host almost got the full measure of crazy. I just kept thinking--how am I going to make this all work?

The intensity of my experience at home, combined with the full force of how quickly I've sort of "re-established" my faith after returning, is spinning me a bit.

Sometimes, I have to remind myself. Just breathe. Just live. Don't get so caught up in what you're thinking and feeling in the moment that you forget to just grab the moment. Don't get so confused by whether this is what you had expected, or if it's what you'd planned, that you miss experiencing it.

I'm living a fairytale.

It's true. I've been into enough churches to know that this one is special. I've met enough Christians to know that these are the real deal. I am living something here that is shocking, because of its wonderfulness. I can remember a time when I was twisted up so badly in my mind and heart, I could barely make sense of myself, because I was so certain that though I wanted Christ, I could not have Him. I was absolutely convinced that though I was miserable outside of the church, I had to keep myself outside, so as to avoid being mislead. It was dark. Definitely more than a little sad.

C.S. Lewis wrote [in paraphrase] that the question is not whether someone can live without Christianity, but whether you can.

I'm not sure if I ever made public the post I wrote about this, but the answer is no. I can't. I don't want to. And if I do, it'll be a terrible mistake. An awful choice.

I think I'm looking at the lifestyle and beliefs of my friends, and I'm asking the wrong question. I'm asking whether I'll be able to live as a biblical Christian? Can I live differently? Can I believe in a faith that the modern world denies? But really, the question is...would I ever be able to reject biblical Christianity? Could I live apart from Christ? Could I say that I won't pray, I won't wait on Him, I won't read about Him, I won't spend time with Him?

No, no. I can't. Friends, I love Him. I could never say goodbye. And what would be the point of trying? I'd be like a child, obstinately giving the silent treatment, knowing all along that the richness of my life had been stolen, taken, mislaid, by my own pride.

I'm being a little too transparent for my own good, here. Too earnest.

But this is truth.

Whatever foolishness I fear pales in comparison to the desperation of a Christ-less life.

last thing on the altar.

"While my friend was conversing with her, preparing her to be prayed with that she might be healed, I sat in a deep chair on the opposite side of a large room. My soul was crying out to God in a yearning too deep for words, when suddenly, it seemed to me that I had passed under a shower of warm tropical rain, which was not falling upon me but through me. My spirit and soul and body under this influence soothed into such a deep still calm as I had never known. My brain, which had always been so active, [emphasis added] became perfectly sill. An awe of the presence of God settled over me. I knew it was God. Some moments passed; I do not know how many. The Spirit said, 'I have heard your prayers, I have seen your tears. You are now baptized in the Holy Spirit.'"

These are the words of John G. Lake, a seminal figure in early Pentecostalism, describing his spirit baptism. They are, obviously, beautiful.

I'm reading this book (see last post) about Pentecostal leaders who came out of Zion, my hometown, and in particular, out of the movement centered around the church that is in fact the church in which I learned of Christ.

These people--their stories are so tremendous. In most cases, they were invited to a strange house where they stood in crowded rooms, overflowing out onto porches, for hours and for days, listening to men and women preach of Christ's imminent return, and of the very ancient, yet entirely new, way of communing with God with which they were unfamiliar. They waited on their knees, they prayed by one and by many, for years, to receive His blessing. They gave up every comfort, a lot of them before even receiving spirit baptism(!), to go out to preach to others. They were steadfast, and seeking. Truly incredible individuals.

And they were real. As real as I am. Their experiences were real. As real as mine.

This book is full of stories, one after another, of people who sought after God, and then went to work for Him. And the stories are truly beautiful.

Listen to the story of this young woman, Jean Campbell, "The seekers were taught that they should be sanctified before they could receive the baptism. This seemed beyond Jean, and so she became discouraged. But in one prayer meeting, she recalled, 'The bandmaster of our city came in and said, 'I put the last thing on the altar coming up the hill!'' This is what Jean needed to hear, and what she did, with the result that the Spirit of God descended on her."

I'll admit, I didn't understand what this meant when I first read it (I'm not incredibly fluent in a lot of the phrases and images used in the old-timey pentecostal voice of the author). I imagined the bandmaster having dropped off some meat or grain or something on his way out to the tent. That notwithstanding-- what a beautiful passage, right? Reminds me of Parham's line about putting everything at the feet of Christ, that He might burn off what is unTruth.

It's all so beautiful. The way they waited on Him. The way they followed Him. How different the world is as a result of their obedience 100 years ago.

Gorgeous.

zion city.

Nerdy confession: When I go to AGTS library (which is kind of a treat), I always pray, before I hit the stacks, that God would bring me to some book that will either be meaningful, entertaining or interesting to me. So far, He's done a bang-up job, but today friends, He went above and beyond. Read:

"The accounts of the outpouring of the Holy Spirit in Zion City are remarkable in many ways. The supernatural events will thrill and inspire you. The fact that so many quality leaders of the Pentecostal movement had their roots in Zion City is almost unbelievable. The work these men and women accomplished for the Kingdom of God wherever they went is also striking. But more wonderful of all is the fact that these men and women of God became humble servants of the Lord Jesus Christ and remained faithful to Him until their work was finished and the Lord took them home. They did not become men and women with a great name in this world only to fail and disgrace the cause of Christ."

Titillating, right? Scintillating. Enthralling. Dare I say it...sexy. This, friends, is a sexy book. Oh right, you don't know why. Let me tell you.

"Zion City," now called "Zion," is my hometown. And I just happen to be a huge fan of Zion history. When the other teens were busy not caring about the roots of their suburb, I was reading about Reverend Dowie (a Scottish transplant with a passion for healing who created the "utopian" suburb to be a haven for Christianity), and how his daughter was burned up in a house fire that started from her curling iron (Dowie said that it was her vanity that took her!)! When the posers were completely unimpressed that he had founded our very own church, I was telling them about how the board room table under which he'd secured an alarm button was sitting in our very church's board room! I'm pretty sure that I am the only person I know who knows where to find Dowie's grave (along Sheridan Road, with a view of a very undignified cyclone fence). Oh, the drama!

I don't care how much of a nerd I sound like right now.

I haven't been this excited about a book since I discovered the Old Testament. Here's to exactly 376 pages of fascinating history.

I am wholly prepared to be thrilled and inspired.

intact.

I know two things.

I will be fine. God will be glorified.

Whatever this is--this moment of uncertainty, and fear and confusion--it's a moment only. Albeit a powerful one.

The truth is that I believe in fantastical things. I claim as truth things that seem downright nonsensical. Things that can be hard to defend and that ultimately take refuge in faith.

I don't mean to paint a bleak picture for the logic of Christianity--my faith is at least as logical as any other.

But--to believe all of these fantastical things, and to not shrink from their truth, puts me at odds with all of what I came from socially.

I had forgotten just how much of a sin it is to be biblically Christian among my peer group. The vitriol with which they approach the Christian faith is stunning. Or rather, the Christian ideology.

See, they are okay with my going to church, my identifying as Christian, and my interesting chatter about my experiences here--all pleasant, if odd, little corners of Ashley. It's the conviction they'd hate. The part about sin, and Christ, and absolute Truth. Because that stuff--that stuff has something to say about them, personally. I think that most people sense, even if they consciously espouse relativism, that the problem with any truth claim is that it is either true, or it's not, for anyone. For everyone. Hence all the squabbling over that famous question, "Do you think I'M going to hell?"

As far as truth claims go, I've crossed the line, and I've crossed it in a big way. I say, and do, and think things that would be baffling to them. More than baffling. Wrong. Crazy. Cultic. Brainwashed.

Of course, this I understand. I still remember the surge of adrenaline I felt the first time I heard someone speak in tongues in public. It was one of the most shocking and electrifying moments of my life. I can remember the exact moment I realized the people around me believed that the earth is only 6000 years old. My heart sped up, face flushed, palms sweating, it was like being tossed into an alternate universe. They do exist.

So I completely understand the distance between me and my friends. But I dread the process of having them understand--slowly, more and more--who I am. I'm sad to know that there are some things that we won't share, and there are decisions that we make that will be incomprehensible to the other.

Then again, that has always been the case.

And God has always been in control.

God only knows.

I'm standing in the bathroom of a posh little restaurant in the city, beyond tipsy, contemplating God.

Because apparently, there's no amount of wine, and no bigger occasion (say, a wedding) that can trump the complete terror I feel in the face of my life.

Hence, the drunk girl bathroom discussions with my friends. If you're a goodie, and always have been, let me explain. Girls get drunk. They convene in the bathroom (this part also happens amongst sober girls). And they spill it like the Oprah show. Unlike sober bathroom talk, this is just a little more ridiculous because there are no inhibitions. So you find yourself saying things like, "I just don't know if seminary is the right direction." In retrospect, I think it's obvious that the possibility of seminary dropped out of the race about an hour before, at the fourth glass of wine.

I can't lie. The situation is a little funny to me. Like an SNL skit. The wine-drunk girl talking about God school. To comfort me, a friend of mine told me that she once tried to minister drunk to a gay man at a bar. Some people probably think these are incredibly sad scenes. I think that, as is usually the case in life, the sadness is cornered with humor. But I'd say the writing is on the wall when you're slurring your way through these conversations. For myself, anyway. If this were someone else's life, I'd tell her she made a mistake, but that doesn't mean that she can't move on. So, please, if you're a drunk bathroom girl reading this--know there's hope.

Here's what interests me: I can't get drunk enough, I can't get far enough away from, I can't overshadow the question. I couldn't in college. And I couldn't this weekend. In that sense, it was a valuable experience. Also a valuable experience: the next morning. I learned that I'm not that girl any more. I can try to force myself into her life. But her life isn't mine.

What then is my life? I wish God would tell me. Because I don't want to ask. I can't lie. I don't want to pray. I don't want to read. I'm having a complete intolerance for Christian music. I'm dreading showing up on Sunday. Wednesday is out of the question. I can't even put on that little "Dare to Dream" pendant, knowing it's connected to His house. The best I've been able to do is ask Him to keep my heart safe through whatever this is.

I realized this weekend back in Chicago that I'm not the girl I was. But am I this girl? Am I this Christian girl? The easy answer is yes, and I'll get to that in future posts. But the easy answer isn't the whole answer.

People seem to hate it when I say this, but my experience is my own: I feel alone. Caught between these two cultures that are, in a lot of ways, really missing one another. Missing what it means to be secular, what it means to be Christian, what is required of each. I feel hesitant to accept advice from my oldest and best friends because they have world views that take them in directions away from the heart of Christ. I'm unable to trust fully the advice of my Christian friends because it sometimes misses the nuance of my loneliness--it treats my feeling as though it shouldn't be, but that feeling just is.

Thoreau wrote that you should "walk confidently in the direction of your dreams," but my heart is so muddled. I don't know what those are. My only real dream is for Truth--is to trust confidently in the heart of the One. To be one with God at ease.

How I get there, and what I spend the rest of my time doing-- God only knows.

worlds apart in the white city.

"I find that really surprising."

"Why?"

"Because I would just think it'd be mostly older people."

"Yeah, I get that. But lots of younger people, also very modern younger people, in dress and mannerisms, and humor."

"I would never expect them to be modern. The beliefs seem really outdated for there to be young, modern people involved."

Finally, she told me to write an ethnography--that people would be really interested in hearing what I was saying about the view from inside the conservative Christian community. She was enthralled. She also must have had no idea that people have beat me to this "going deep with the Christians" thing--conservative Christianity is not exactly America's best-kept secret.

All of this is from a conversation I had with a friend this weekend, from the 40th floor of a hotel in downtown Chicago. As we talked, I watched the lights turn on and off in the high-rises across from us, and gazed out onto Lake Michigan, twirling the cross on a silver chain around my neck.

"They're also highly intelligent and well-reasoned," I told her.

"Ok, but only so long as they're just towing the line on their particular beliefs, right?"

"No, not so much. A lot of them are quite conversant with their beliefs, and other belief systems. They have good reasons for believing what they do."

My other friend's mom pipes up, "Yeah, but you have to ask, why would they want to believe those things. That's the problem."

I answer, "They believe them because they find them to be true."

"Or because their parents have always believed them," added my friend. "Most Christians just get their beliefs from their parents--they can't think for themselves."

The conversation comes to a close as my friend told me a story of how someone she knew in high school had gotten so upset for my friend's lost soul that he cried once in conversation with her. My friend was angered by the crying. She felt like it would be okay if he were upset because he really understood the beliefs and felt sorrow for her, but because it was just because his parents had raised him to be indoctrinated by those things...well, how insulting.

There was a lot of talk of forced conversion episodes--stories of coworkers who pushed Jesus, and classmates unwilling to entertain other religious ideals. The inevitable nod to relativism. And the suggestion that I would never be happy at seminary--I'm too intellectual for it, apparently.

We were in the same room, and worlds apart.

going it alone. or not.

I can't bring myself to pray tonight. I can't even talk myself into reading the Old Testament, which is like the fudge sundae of my world. I can get myself to do almost anything using the OT as a bribe. Tonight? No-go.

When I hang out with large groups of Christians, I sometimes walk away with the sense that I don't fit in. More damaging is the sense that I never will. It's nothing that they're doing or saying. It's me. Seriously.

I wonder if I'll ever feel completely at home. I think--Ash, these are wonderful people, what's your deal, chica? I pick apart the situation until there are no parts left to pick. But I keep picking until all I can do is pray, but then, I can't bring myself to pray. Like tonight.

I think that maybe I'd be happier outside the church. But that's done. I'm ruined for nights of casual drinking on the couches of people who don't care for God. My heart is changed.

When I was away from God, my heart broke to be in His church. I believed that Christ had set this incredible example, and that churches were falling short of understanding the true power of that example. So I refused to take full part in them. But it hurt. I wanted to be in the church so badly. I felt like it was incredibly sacrificial on my part--to stay away, for intellectual reasons, from a community I so desperately wanted to be a part of.

Now, I'm in His church, only it's not always so great. I have all of these insecurities. I don't always know how to be in the church. I feel sometimes like I'm making all the effort (even as I know I have no right to expect other people to try to understand me). Things I find funny no one else does. And things other people find normal are just whacky to me. There are all of these differences, and sometimes, my talking about them can come across as divisive. It can be isolating.

I'm not sure how to find my way through it...

Usually, I just pray that though I can't pray, God would keep me.

fright faith.

My faith is about to get really stale.

Up to this point, it's been almost entirely about me. Which is fine, because it needed to be. I had (and have) a lot of misconceptions. I needed to root through the fine points, praying and thinking, and inviting God in refine.

But, I feel like I'm at a juncture. And it's maybe a dangerous one. Maybe one at which it's easy to get lost, to become stagnant.

Though there's still much work to do in thinking and praying and rooting, if my faith continues like it is, I'll miss the larger part of what it means to live in God. I'll not understand that I don't have a strictly personal faith. See, my faith, it isn't just for me.

I used to rail on about how the problem with American Christianity was that people didn't understand the supposed power of their supposed deity. That if they really "got it," they'd be an unstoppable force for good.

At the time, I had the passion, but lacked the Truth.

Now, I'm in danger of knowing the Truth, but not allowing that Truth to loose the passion.

These men came to James River earlier this year--men from other countries who, frankly, scared the crap out of me with their healing prayers and over-the-top stories of crazy foreign Spirit experiences. Their faiths scared me. They also enticed me.

The thing is this. If I believe in God, and I do, then miracles are not so crazy. And if I believe in miracles, there's no reason not to believe in asking for them. And if that's the case, then I could potentially be the kind of person who asks boldly for bold things, who acts boldly for bold things. But... I realized then, as I know now, that people of that kind of faith are normal. They don't have super-human wisdom, or inordinate amounts of courage. They just make the decision to believe at every juncture. And over the years of their lives those decisions all link together to form a chain of astounding strength. They move mountains not because they are themselves mountain-movers, but because they have learned to allow THE mountain-mover to dwell in them. By faith.

It'd be very easy to stop here. I have Christ, after all! It'd be so simple to stop growing here. To decide that I have enough God in my life now to live on. But what is the point of a half-lived faith? That seems almost detestable. To be so close to God, and so far from His power. If God is real, then I want ALL of what there is to have of Him. Even the parts that can only be gotten through doing scary things.

I doubt that I'll ever be casting out demons in Sri Lanka, but all the same...

Papa.

Papa.

I loved that.

When I was 14, the church that I had just taken up with had recently gone through a search for a missions pastor. They found a lovely family with two sons, and one daughter, and I distinctly remember seeing the picture of the younger son and knowing that our lives would somehow intersect.

A few weeks later then, when he arrived in Zion from the Philippines, our lives intersected.

I'm not sure when or how or why, but we became friends, with a twist. And when he'd pray, he'd pray "Papa." Papa God. I thought it was beautiful.

Months later, I remember standing in the kitchen with his Mom, heart-broken that he was going on a month-long missions trip back to the Philippines. She told me that distance makes the heart grow fonder. Apparently, the cure for distance is bad grammar--he wrote me these atrociously-edited emails that killed the heart-break. He also sent this beautiful necklace. It was a red stone on a black cord, and I thought it was about the sweetest thing that had ever happened to me.

He's married now. Someone else is dealing with his inability to distinguish between "their" and "they're." And I bet he has no idea that when deep in prayer, I think of that intimacy, the word "Papa," and I remember him. When I remember him, I remember all of the Christians who have touched my life. And when I remember them, "Papa" becomes all the more precious.

I am deeply in love with the people I've met here, the church, and the life I lead (more so than most of them know). Even the hard parts. The ones I cry over. But this isn't my life in Christ. This place, this time--they don't define me fully. Maybe now, but not forever. For better or worse, there will be other Christians, and other churches, and that won't change the reality of God. That won't displace the urgency of Christ.

God is timeless. Thus, I am timeless. At least the part of me fashioned after my Father. My Papa.

pillow talk.

I've been wondering how long my faith will last in the face of this graduate religious studies class I'm taking.

In fact, one of the great reliefs to me this term was walking into the class to discover that there was another James River person in the class. Going in, I knew that the type of academic discourse of the class was exactly the kind that could unsettle everything I've come to believe. So, when we started introducing ourselves, and the guy in front of me gave a very recognizable last name, I exhaled. Thank God. Not even just a random James River person, but someone who I could trust would bring a fair amount of strength in faith to the table. This guy would probably make it through the course faith in tact. So could I.

I've been surprised this term, to find that the class has not at all disturbed my faith (which is admittedly precarious at times). Until tonight.

In class, I'm surrounded by people who know so much more about the Christian and Jewish faiths than I might ever know. Sometimes, their knowledge is overwhelming to me. I listen to them speak, and I think, if these people wanted to decimate my faith, they could do it quickly. Who am I? Who am I to believe?

I'm similarly outmatched in strictly Christian circles. I have to admit, my peer group is a little intimidating at times. It's hard to talk openly of all that I'm experiencing and grappling with, when the people around me are so past that.

I'm surrounded by people who are strong Christians and have been apparently since the moment they were born (probably since conception--a friend told me this story about an Evangel prof who talks openly about how he speaks in tongues during sex with his wife (is that inappropriate for me to write about? because that's nothing compared to what you'll hear at Pillow Talk--a Christian sex conference so real you'll have to flash a marriage license to get in (#butanyway))).

The point is: I wish faith were easy for me. It seems so easy for other people. Like they believe because they always have. For them, God is obvious. The absence of Christ would be absurd. The Holy Spirit speaks succinctly.

I have to remind myself that we all make the decision. I remind myself that these beliefs are not any more ludicrous than others I've held. Yes, I could choose not to believe, but the absence of belief would in itself be a faith. Keep moving, Ash. Keep moving.

There's joy. It's hard, yes, but faith is not a downer. I don't do it because I have to. I do it because I want to. Because ultimately, I believe in God, and in atonement, and in the work of the Holy Spirit, even when my emotions grab hold. I don't remind my intellect. I remind that fickle, shallow part of my heart--the one that gets bruised easily, and scares at a whim, and invests too much in its own worth.

Sometimes, literally all I feel I can do is pray. And even then, I don't pray. I just sit, because prayer seems like too great an act of faith.

Have you ever just sat?

wiser for words.

I've been feeling alone in the church recently. It's an illusion, I know. But all the same, I feel it. This gnawing sense that there's so much going on that no one understands. In truth, a lot of them don't. More do than I probably credit as such.

I've stopped writing and talking about a lot of it because I get frustrated with my inability to talk openly about some issues, and because it's hard to be honest inside the church. There's a certain pressure to appear to have it all together. I fear that whatever I write might be misconstrued. And that in that confusion, my sense of being alone will be all the sharper.

But... I've dropped the F-bomb in this blog. More than once. I've suggested that the pastor doesn't mean what he's saying. I called a holiday service an abomination, and I completely insulted some members of another church. I've admitted to drugs and sex. I openly challenged God to come and get me, after suggesting that the non-denominationals are like the methadone of the church world. I quoted a pastor's wife in an unflattering light. The list goes on.

What's a little more honesty? You already know who I am. What I am. You know that I have a knack for getting it wrong, for arrogance, and error. In fact, the great strength of this blog for me has been as a medium for the honest working-through of my faith. I think that for the few who read it, that honesty is what compels.

The truth is--I have a choice to make now. I can either keep walking in, and face the stuff that I'm finding hard. Or I can decide I was wrong, and turn around. And that choice will make all the difference. I don't mean to be dramatic, it just will.

It used to be that every other week I was ready to leave the church, because I hadn't yet differentiated my affection for the church with my love for God. As my love for God grew in, I became more accepting of His Church. I began to recognize that whatever I don't agree with, I was learning about Him in the church, and that was (is) a necessary process.

This juncture is a little bit different. I now know more of the choice that we all make. I'm smart enough to know that most of our choices aren't based on fact, but emotion, but that the kind of wisdom that I'm seeing in the people I most admire comes from their learned ability to push past emotion, staying true not necessarily to "fact" as we moderns envision it, but to God's fact, as felt through His Spirit and seen in His Word. Their faith seems unwavering not because the experience of their faith remains still, but because they choose to act on the truth of promises, not the felt experience of them.

So, I feel myself at an interesting crossroad. I can choose to decide it's too hard. The wisdom I'm seeing--it's impossible. God can't work that in me. I'm not that kind of faithful. Or. I can choose to ignore all of the backtalk, and just do it. Live the faith I feel I'm not capable of. Wisdom, I'm finding, is made of so many seemingly tiny decisions throughout the course of a day that together, strengthen the whole. But those decisions have to be made.

In the interest of honesty, I've been struggling with very specific issues lately. Seminary? That's completely impractical. But the other possibilities are entirely joyless to me. What to do? Giving. I enjoy giving to my pet things, and at this point in my life, I have a financial choice to make--I can either give to the church, or to those projects (things that have been important to me for some time). There's really not the possibility of both right now, though I would imagine that won't always be the case. Character. There's poisonous irritability and discontent in my heart recently. I'm not living as the person of character I'd like to be.

I've sat down to write about any of these, and felt frustrated. How do I talk about them? What do I say? What will people think? The more I stare at a blank screen, the more anxious I get, and eventually, I run from the process entirely. Because I know the choice is there. Because I'm scared?

here's my 11.

I was sitting at the kitchen table with my best friend, Terri.

I remember that as though it were yesterday. I can still see her at my mom's "place" at the table (I was sitting at my stepdad's), smiling and joking with me, as we talked about how lame church was going to be. She was pretty proud of herself because she had somehow ducked the entreaties to go, made by our friend Steph.

We were anti-church. I'm not entirely sure why. I had felt slighted after being laughed at years before by the other kids at my grandmother's Methodist church--I was the only kid who didn't know the Lord's Prayer (ironically, the recitation of that prayer became my favorite moment of Episcopalian services). Terri had been raised catholic.

I told her Steph's mom was picking me up by 6:45. I didn't want to go. I remember whining and making faces, and her repeatedly rubbing it in my face that she had said no.

I remember running out to the car when Mrs. DePasquale got to my house. The church was (and is) about 10 blocks away, in the center of our little suburb of Zion--a lakefront community founded by Reverend Dr. John Alexander Dowie, a faith-healer from Scotland. Hence the name of the town. I've since learned that he is intimately linked to the beginning of the Pentecostal movement, though the church he founded, the same that founded my own faith, now bears no resemblance to Pentecostalism.

It was Halloween, 1999. Steph had convinced me to go to Sunday night youth group, then called "Big Stuff," at Christ Community Church (clearly not the name that Dowie had christened it with). God intervened. I said yes. I had Terri come over beforehand because I was so not enthused about going. I got in the car. And from the entire evening I remember only one moment: creaming Steph on the nose with a chocolate-covered marshmallow. Youth ministry is so great.

We played this game that involves partners--one standing on a chair, one lying down underneath the chair--a teacup full of sticky chocolate sauce, and a handful of marshmallows. If you've ever gotten within ten feet of a youth group, I'm sure you can figure it out.

I don't remember when I first said yes to Christ. I don't have a journal from that year. I've got a couple of letters or writings here or there, from a few months later, in which I'd clearly felt like the decision had been made.

But whatever happened that night, or that year, it set the course for today, and tomorrow. I've heard often this phrase about how some people have enough church in them to never really be at home in the world. People tell me that growing up in the church never really leaves you. Studies show that there is a window of years in which the gospel should be taught, if kids are to carry faith successfully into adulthood.

I wasn't really very young when I first met Christ. But though I didn't "grow up in the church," I think I've always had just enough Christ to ruin the world for me. That first encounter, though it was brief, and though it led very shortly to a complete dismissal of all things Christian, was enough. It was enough to hold me for life. To bring me back. To leave me at every altar in Galesburg, IL. To keep me at a megachurch. To make me accept once, fall, then accept again and finally.

Oh, Father. You didn't have to bring me back, but You did. You didn't have to bring me at all. But You did. You have brought me every good thing, and my whole soul is grateful. My whole soul is Yours.

morning thoughts.

The sun shines today also.

One of my favorite lines from Emerson. I won't force-feed you the foregoing paragraph, but I'll tell you that it's about tradition. Actually, Tradition. It's about how previous generations were able to form their world, and their God through fresh eyes. But "ours is a retrospective age." Emerson claims that we live through the experiences of those before us.

Thus, Emerson would have us remember that the sun shines today also. The world continues to turn. We are in the world. We have the ability to construct our own reality, today also.

I like the line because I think they speak to a living religion. And in fact, the strictures of religious tradition are in part what Emerson was railing against.

I like that in a few simple words, I can be reminded that God is not dead, church is not something that I do, and scriptures are not hollow words. God is very much alive, to be experienced as vibrantly by me as by the first humans on this earth. His Church is something that He breathes into. His Words are a living link to His heart. When I pray, when I worship, when I read--the process is interactive. That's a miracle, friends. A miracle with 24-7 access that requires nothing more than my willingness to take part. I don't have to beg God to work in me.

Emerson was not exactly a bible-believing Christian, so I doubt he'd favor my reading of his words.

The Holy Spirit sows truth where He will, I suppose.

gathering clouds.

I'm still alive. Still thinking. I just can't seem to write two words next to each other.

But I was reading yesterday when I felt suddenly a powerful and irrefutable urge towards prayer.

It was bizarre. The urge wasn't a normal desire--like I get home sometimes and just think, "Prayer and Old Testament sounds so pleasant for this afternoon." It was a directive. And there was something attached to it. The sense that this wasn't casual prayer. Not that Pentecostal prayer ever really is. But there was this sense that I need to be in prayer especially this week. And not only for me, but for those around me, to strengthen us all. Especially as though I'd need their strength and wisdom.

I can't explain it. I might be crazy. When I was a case manager, I always wondered which crazy person I'd be, and I've long suspected that I'd be the apocalyptic one--the one who walks around preaching repentance and talking about "the coming darkness," and "the gathering clouds." That kind of thing.

So I might be crazy. This urge might be crazy. I recognize that. I'm not chancing it--I'm praying for myself and every person I see on the sidewalk this week--but I can at least nod to the impossibility of it all.

Do you think God gives these senses? Why would He? Have you ever had a sense like this one? What happened?

low ambition.

My friends are doing all of these crazy awesome things. Meeting with Nobel Prize winners, and winning medical fellowships, and passing the bar. And I'm in Southern Missouri, applying to seminary.

At one point, I would have been jealous of them. I'd have attempted to console myself with some idea of my own prestige. But it's not about that anymore. Whether I do anything "important" at all, ever, is a moot point.

The most important thing I do every day is waking up, and telling God that I'm in. I'm in again. I'm in today. I'm in to try to let His love work through me, to show others how much He loves them. I'm in.

I don't need a Nobel prize winner to help. No fellowship could make God more or less loving. A lawyer's salary would be nice, but I don't need the money, or the power.

My skills are what they are. My potential is what it is. I am what I am. And none of it matters unless it's all in line with His love, and it is. For the first time, it is. It's good. Feels good.

I am a far cry from perfect, but I'm no longer reaching for perfection. Now, I'm out for holiness. For one-ness with God.

I think that part of this seminary process has been giving up my own ideas of success. I've been wondering if I am willing to say that I don't care if I'm never well-known in my field. I don't care if I'm never published, if I'm never THE go-to psychologist in a field. Going to seminary has represented to me that admission--so being ready to go has meant my laying down my own ambitions. I think I'm willing to do that now. I can honestly say that I don't care what happens to my name, and my reputation, as long as I'm doing whatever it is God would have me do.

This is very different from the individualist world, in which part of happiness is recognition. It feels good to walk away from that. To walk towards God.

I'm sure I'll panic. I'm sure there'll be moments of uncertainty. I'll read a FB status, and feel jealousy. And who knows? Maybe seminary isn't the right direction. Maybe psychology is still the plan.

But to walk from the world, towards God, and His love for people--it's all the plan I need to know.

it's more than just a game for two.

I love God.

I'm not sure when it happened. I don't know the exact moment.

But I love God. And I've already seen Him do cool things in and through my life.

I came here claiming Christianity, but with a powerless faith. One that generated passion for the person of Christ, but lacked an understanding of how the person necessarily called forth the presence of the divine. I was more than questioning--I was angry, and hurt, and distrustful. But I accepted Christ. I was baptized. Then I accepted Christ again. And somewhere in all of that, I came to love God. I came to see His unmistakable thumbprint in the minutiae of my life. I felt His love for me expand into far-flung corners of my world, and lift my heart to see them. More recently, I've watched as He spins a love for people inside of my heart unlike any of the more idealistic sorts of love I've harbored in the past.

When I doubt, I sometimes show myself these things. I parade His work in front of my mind's eye, and ask--what does this look like to you?

Looks like love. Like an an incredible, glorious, breathtaking, and unmistakably divine kind of love.

So I love God, because He loved me first.

two-stepping with God.

I have this game I play. I started it in college. It's simple.

You start walking. And for each step you take, you have to whisper to God one thing you're grateful for.

On my agnostic or atheist days, I'd just whisper to myself.

Regardless, I'd whisper. One step. Folksy black-and-white photos of great-grandparents I've never met. Step two. That first sip of coffee in the morning. Another step, over the crack. My grandmother's antique pearl-and-diamond ring. Forth step. My mind. Step five. That eye-popping blue of the sky. And another...

No doubt, the gratefulness saved me. I'd play the game when I was happy, but also when I was sad. When the depression, and the regret of it all came down. Trudging from block to block, I'd still play. More slowly, maybe. Later, I'd play it in writing--journaling one blessing after another.

The game was a gift from God. Another of the ways in which He equipped me to know Him, before I really did.

Sometimes, I doubt. I start to worry that there's no evidence for what I say about God, and Christ, and atonement. But then, I remember the ways in which He has worked so powerfully but in seeming silence in my life. I see Him having guided my ways so thoroughly, so lovingly. And I think that my proof is there. My evidence is in the careful orchestration of all moments leading to this one.

Leading to a moment in which I can stand whole, though sometimes insecure and often unsure, and claim a life with Christ.

This is wild grace.

Another step. I walk with God.

prayer promise.

Do you think it's possible to have a prayer "confirmed"?

I was in prayer a couple of days ago, asking for something for a friend of mine, something huge and kind of non-specific, but very, very important for this person. And suddenly, it was as though God said "Yes, I'll do that." I was a little surprised. Did my subconscious just make that up? Did God Himself really tell me that He'd answer this huge prayer? What just happened?

The moment was so clear, and so incredibly precise. I definitely felt the "yes." But does God do that kind of thing? I mean, this was a whopper of a prayer. It covered the whole of my friend's life, from this day til the last. It branched out across the person's life. Big prayer.

Yet, there was a "yes." There was a definite moment wherein God seemed to tell me that He had heard the prayer, and had every intention of taking care of it. I could be crazy, but it felt like a promise to my heart. As though God were telling me that He would do as I asked in protecting this person.

I'm not sure what that means. I guess we'll see.

My prayer life has been getting funky fresh recently. I find myself called to pray at strange hours, and in strange ways. I feel directives--turn off the music, flip to this passage, get on your knees, go pray again. I might be losing it. This could be the final descent to insanity.

Then again, when I finally get there, I'll be all prayed up. Bonus.

But seriously--God is doing funny things in my prayers. Weird prayers are being answered--and others confirmed. Last week, I was given this whacked-out passage--at least the implications are whacked-out. I'm praying with friends. It's all a little jumbled up. A little out of the usual.

Praying I'm not crazy.

happy anniversary to us.

Today is the one-year anniversary of the best sermon ever written.

I know what you're thinking. Sinners in the Hands of an Angry God was written like, 250 years ago. But with all due respect to the memory of Jonathan Edwards, he was just out-shined. It happens. I used to have the prettiest hair in my peer group, and then I met Natalie. Such is life.

So, today is the one-year anniversary of the best sermon ever written, and in honor of this auspicious occasion, I'd like us to meditate on one line from said sermon. (If you're interested, its title is "God Chose You!", delivered by Lindell on a Wednesday night prayer service at James River.)

Towards the end of the immaculately-organized specimen of Word-ed wonder, Lindell says "And tonight, you might not understand what is going on in your life, but that does not mean that God is not in control."

Excellent, right? Don't you just want to listen to the whole thing? Email me, I'll hook you up. (Oh! Or maybe we can have a super-fun people party, and listen to it together!)

It was this sermon, and that idea, that began to shift my thinking away from rigid adherence to knowledge. I had been pushing so hard against atonement--how does it work? I asked myself again and again. I felt like I was just banging my head against the wall, sometimes begging God to help, to give me something--anything--that would make it all make sense. But this sermon, and that idea that my confusion is no indicator of God's presence, changed me. I began to slowly understand that God is God regardless of whether or not I understand Him.

My life is proof! I've never understood Him. I've searched, and asked, and begged, and cried, and prayed. And somehow through all of that, even in the moments when I thought I was acting completely outside of a system with God, He was guiding me. I didn't understand, but God was in control.

Because of that sermon, I chose to attempt the belief that though I don't understand the greater metaphysics of exactly how I am saved, that God is still a good God. I chose to live with the ambiguity of election.

So I look forward, and I think that I don't understand all of this. I don't know how it's going to work. I mean, really, who am I, and where am I going, and what will happen now? But maybe, just maybe--

I don't understand what's happening in my life, but God is completely in control.

ours are the souls

I've had something of a strange weekend.

I woke up yesterday morning to what I can only think is some sort of prodding from God: I don't have the luxury of losing hope. There are people who need help, who need to see Christ's love lived out.

Seriously, I woke up, fuzzy and foggy and wrapping my head around consciousness, with that one message pressing onto me. That particular kind of communication has only happened once before--it was last fall, I woke up to the urgent notion that evil was waiting for me, that I had been letting corruption into my heart. I had been, actually. But the directness of the message changed my mind, righted me. Taking that situation as guidance for how I ought to interpret this one, I realized I need to take hope more seriously.

As a side note, I am fascinated by how God communicates with us via different methods at different times. Another post.

Back to yesterday. I was reading in Joshua later, and it suddenly occurred to me that I am not empty-handed. Sometimes, I feel like I have nothing of value to offer in faith. But I heard, distinctly, as I read...There are people who need what you know. Though I don't know a lot, it occurred to me that there are people who need that little. There are people who are where I've been. Who need to know that Christ is real, and that peace is possible.

Which brings me to this morning.

I was listening to Lindell preach, and there was this beautiful moment in the sermon at which he said something like this: "I have never regretted a dollar I've given to the work of Christ." I immediately flashed to meeting him recently, shaking his hand while he smiled at me, and I realized...mine is the soul for which that dollar paid. He's never regretted it because he knows that souls like mine are at stake. Don't get me wrong--I know that the dollar didn't literally buy my soul, nor did Lindell's preaching, or the building. My soul was bought by Christ's blood. I was saved by Jesus alone. But, many many people gave sacrificially, allowing God to work through them, and because of that, I came to know the blood that saved me. Mine is the soul.

A few minutes later, I was walking to the bathroom between services, and I ran into this kid who just seemed so alone. I remembered how people in this church reached out to me, giving me their phone numbers and email addresses, and asking me to hang out with them, and praying for me, and showing me grace. And as I gave him my email address, I thought...his is the soul.

This Body is beautiful. More beautiful than I can write.

I used to read accounts of early Christians--willing to die of crazy first-century diseases in order to take care of others--and I'd think that we're not doing so well. That Christians aren't so great.

But I don't think that anymore. This Body is beautiful.

hoping on for dear life.

I've been trying to talk myself out of this seminary idea. The problem is this: there's nothing else I want to do. There's nothing else I feel I should be doing.

Nevertheless, the whole idea is a little crazy, and off-the-beaten-path, and I've got no shortage of effective counter-points for why I should ignore the prompt. Some are valid.

I was with a friend tonight, and I knew that I needed to ask her to pray with me. But I couldn't. I just couldn't. Praying with people I know is so, so so hard. Vulnerable. Awkward. I just can't. My palms got sweaty even as I started to ask her, and my heart felt it might explode, and I just can't.

Driving home, I realized--this seminary thing, it's never going to work. Who do I think I am? I can't even pray with a friend, and I'm thinking about seminary? Yeah, no. Give up, Ash. Give it up. I don't care if you think God is leading you there--clearly you're wrong. Law school is nice. Go to law school.

Even now, the allure of that thinking is strong. I know that the reality is that I'm not fit for seminary. That I'm something of a failure in faith. But. And this is a big but. I want to choose hope. I want to hope that if God is calling me to seminary, as I feel He is, that however inadequate I am for the task, He will do something crazy, something unheard of, something remarkable, and astounding, and miraculous in my life to prepare me. This shouldn't be a difficult hope. He's already done everything. I live in Christ. I am redeemed. The impossible is the reality of my heart. I, and you, and every believer I know, we are all walking sign posts to the indestructible force of hope in Christ.

Yet, I get discouraged.

But hope is a non-negotiable. I don't get to choose when to have hope, and when to abandon it. There's no biblical support for my being selectively hopeful.

I think to my favorite scriptures, and Paul doesn't write that "His gifts, and His call are irrevocable, for some people." Joshua doesn't hear that "I might not leave you, nor forsake you." Jesus himself leaves no ambiguity, He never says that if you "ask me for anything in my name, I will do some of it."

Hope is not up for debate. It is irrevocable, it's all-encompassing, and it brooks no competition from fear. Hope is entire. Complete. Hope in God leaves no place for doubt. Hope is an imperative.

In that sense hope is not something that we do, it's who we are. As people of the light, hope is not a pleasantry. It's not a safety blanket. And maybe this is what separates out those who use religion, and those who are religious. We are often accused of adhering to religious beliefs in order to gain a sense of security. The world is rough, and so we go God, or so the line goes. But what of those moments when hope is not easy? When relationship with Christ doesn't feel very secure? When hope is a chore?

I can't lie. I don't feel very hopeful right now. I drove home tonight, thinking that I should just give up this idea of seminary because if I can't pray with friends--if I'm too scared to share my faith in that kind of intimacy--what hope do I have of having anything to do with ministry? So, ministry's out, I thought.

I felt no hope. No hope that I can be whoever I need to be to have God using me in the way I think He intends. I still don't feel hope for that. But I don't think it matters that I don't feel it. I'm not called to feel it. I am called to harbor it. To let God's hope live in me. To protect ferociously the hope of His promises.

I wonder if we're all called to such hope, not because it makes our lives better or safer or more secure, but because the lives of others depend upon it.

He wantsta hold your ha-aaaa--aaand.

12 minutes. I just finished writing my lecture notes for the classes I teach tomorrow, and I'm giving myself 12 minutes before I force sleep.

So let me be brief. I was in my graduate-level religious studies class tonight, and I have no business being in a graduate-level religious studies class, but I sat there, and something weird happened.

I am a girl after knowledge. I was raised to value education for education's sake. I went to a school at which being smart was cool. Facts, and knowledge, and rhetorical skill have all been drilled into me as things to reach for. So part of the allure of this religious studies class has been the idea that I could some day know as much about theology as these people do. I could be as smart as them. The level of proficiency that I have in psychology--I could have that in theology. I could be the expert. That's after all part of the glory of academia--most serious academicians want to eventually be the best at what they do. I haven't been immune to that vanity.

So I was shocked tonight to sit in class, and realize that yes, I want to know all that they know and more, but I don't care about the academic debate nor the prestige. Suddenly, in the middle of class, I realized that I don't care at all about the dispassionate academic, debating-for-debating's-sake going on. Divorced from Christ, the theology meant nothing to me in that moment. Yes, I want to know about Augustine. But not so that I can have a rousingly self-serving discussion about the historical implications of his witness doctrine. Not unless knowing the historical implications will help me to help someone else understand God's love for them. Otherwise, I don't care.

I drove home, floored. I thought I wanted to go into theology to be the smart one. That was part of the plan in considering theological doctoral programs a couple of months ago. But the plan just got turned on its ear. My heart did something crazy. It flipped on me. I said I never wanted to go into the ministry end of seminary. Seriously--I just told someone from Dallas Theological Seminary that very thing a few weeks ago over the phone. "No sir, I'm not interested in ministry--just the academic end of theology." But, eschewing the academic interest in favor of any interest that will help me to bring people closer to God--that sounds a lot like ministry to me.

Maybe I just had a bad bite of something. Lead-poisoning? Low oxygen? I don't know. I'm going to sleep on it.

Regardless, I got home to friends in my living room, one of whom related how a third friend of ours expressed his concern that I was spending "too much time with people from the cult."

Nuts, right? Let's be real, though, I don't need his opinion to unsettle me--I can do that well enough on my own. Am I serious about this? I'm not qualified to help bring people to God. I'm a child. I'm flighty, and doubt-filled, and unstable at times. Who am I kidding?

But even if Rome wasn't built in a day, how crazy is it that my heart just flipped like that? Is it even possible? Have I finally lost it? I told God that I would need some hand-holding. I wasn't sure what that would look like.

Am I seeing it?