3am.

3am. can't sleep. turns on computer to write. (dangerous. 8am class and long day ahead. but what choice does one have? my mind will not quit to slumber.)


I need to marry someone rich so that I can give. give. give. give.


Give it all away. I want to give my parents the $5,000 they need so that my dad can get a hearing aid and listen to his children on the phone and his grandchildren cry. I want to pay the insurance on our house so that it is secure. I want to assure my parents with a large travel check that this summer will not be the last time we meet until heaven. All I want from my husband for the Christmas gifts of all my years to come is the promise of saving what we can to bring my parents out. Hope.



Money is the root of all evil. Money is the source of hope. Dichotomy. Irony.




If you've ever read realist literature, especially from the age of the Great Depression, than you are already familiar with the story of my father.

Driving home from a wrestling tournament on Saturday, the chronology of life and fate from his post-IBM-layoff period of life was recalled for me. One decision after another to turn right when the success would have come to the left. One week away from so many possibilities. One unsuccessful attempt at rebuilding after another.


The cursed plots always come to pass on the most beloved characters.

A series of bad luck has befallen on one of God's greatest men. Coming to a series of forks in the road, with the free will to choose either path (no direction granted from above), he kept choosing one side only to find the other would have brought us comfort.




The most hard working, worthy man is brought down by old age revealed in the grey appearing on top of his head and slower cognition not allowing him to keep up with the demands of a new and unfamiliar career.

Life is not fair. Who is more deserving? This man gives his all to every company he has ever had opportunity to serve under. Working all day in dark environments, past closing time, he finishes up his tasks at work only to come home and hack away at the computer all night typing in notes of what he has learned for today. Never a devotion greater displayed.




We learned our lesson eight years ago. Now, soon, can we find rest from our burdens and not greater heartache? What more can we do? Reminds me of the David Crowder song.
I am trying to trust that you love him more than I ever could. I am trying to trust that one day the hope we long await will reveal itself to us. I am trying to trust that day by day, slowly, you will strengthen his heart and encourage his spirit.




Send us our miracle.


I want to take it upon myself. I want to deal with this pain, not him. Not the man that stretched himself thin all my days to bless me. Not the one who would give his heart and soul for his children, his wife. Not the man whose one and only desire is to support his family and feel fulfilled in his masculine role. To feel important. To feel sufficient. To feel useful. To feel enough. Not this man.


If I could, I would write him a check for all that I have.

But this would only carry us a few months. Instead I must sit and wait. Like him. Try to speak words of grace and peace. Try.







How much more does your heart break for him?



Hold him, Lord.


(…I can't seem to end this post. My prayer won't end. It will never end until a miracle comes. And even then it won't end as we never cease to sing your praise. We sing your praise now, in sickness and in health, for richer for poorer.


We also sing in pain and despair. I need you to be here now.)


Rescue is coming.


Please, God, let it come.









Humble, unstoppable, tears fall.

Be Blessed and Bless.

Old cliches: You don't know what you've got till its gone. Don't kick a gifthorse in the mouth. When you have a bunch of lemons, make lemonade.

The faith of one: Logic. Wisdom. Chosen. Secure. Pained.

The faith of another: Child-like. Proud. Giving. Stretched.

One hard to love: Strong. Confident. Easy. Blessed.

The beloved: Quiet. Firm. Anticipatory. Taken.

My long blinded faith. Disgraceful and proud. Foolish. Unthankful. Challenged. Broken. Remorse. Blind. Blind.

You may never understand this post. It has been the thorn in my flesh for twenty-one years. By the grace of God, may I pull out the splinter and let it heal with a neon pink and yellow-polka-dotted bandaid.

I post for me. A sign of repentence and remembrance. A covenant.

Just another story. You are not just another story to me. You will never be a story. You were real. Holy crap. They don't know you. They don't know why I'm crying. God be praised that your story continues to be shared. But you are NOT a story. You are not a moral lesson to be tossed out. God! We love you. We miss you. You were here. You were ours. You were real. You are not just a name. You are his now. You are ok. You are alive. I believe this. God, I miss you. I'm still praying for your family. You are their son. Their brother. Their youth pastor. Their best friend. Their roommate. That doesn't change. You are. You left us, but you're here. I know this. So much more than a story. They don't know. They don't know anything.

I need you so much closer.

I haven't cried over Andy in a good, solid month. I hate how time heals. (Ha! Seems crazy, I know.) Time. Healing. Think about that. Some lessons we forget too quickly. Last week the Lord did a crazy work in the midst of my busy day and I thought to myself, "I am going to make an oath to myself NOT to forget this moment so that I can praise Him." Sunday we had an opportunity to share what God has done in our lives..."Crap. What was it he did last week again? There was something...It was cool...Crap!" I've already expressed in blog posts the things I don't want to forget about Andy. His servant heart. His humor - constantly relating to others in whatever way works for them. God! He's so close. Heaven is not far! I know this! Life is short! Why do things slip our minds so? It kills me.

"There is so much more we would like to say about this. But you don't seem to listen, so it's hard to make you understand. You have been Christians a long time now, and you ought to be teaching others. Instead, you need someone to teach you again the basic things a beginner must learn about the Scriptures. You are like babies who drink only milk and cannot eat solid food...We are confident that you are meant for better things, things that come with salvation. For God is not unfair. He will not forget how hard you have worked for him and how you have shown your love to him by caring for other Christians, as you still do. Our great desire is that you will keep right on loving others as long as life lasts, in order to make certain that what you hope for will come true. Then you will not become spiritually dull and indifferent. Instead, you will follow the example of those who are going to inherit God's promises because of their faith and patience" (Hebrews 6).

I need you so much closer.

Confidence

Walking through town with a head up, smile on.

Not having time to mess with makeup for months - you still feel beautiful.

Entering through a door knowing you have something to offer a room full of students.

Why is that kid sitting alone? My name's Kate.

Crying once, in August, and leaving it behind.

What the heck. One more chocolate.

Admitting doubts. Honestly.

Standing up to a boss, declaring your worth as an employee in her company.

Baileys is bomb. So is that old anglo-saxon word 'damn.' Your mom doesn't think so.

Waiting. Patiently, earnestly, knowingly.

Letting go of that padded bra and dark lipstick.

Turning off your light, homework undone. Your sanity is more important.

Playing pool with a group of people you just met -- scratched again!

Praying for your roommate. Outloud.

Dancing ridiculously. In public.

Receiving an email from a worried parent to give his daughter a call. She thinks you're lying.

Going out to lunch alone when your schedule does not match up with others'.

Singing wonderfully loud, off-tune notes, in a game of "Rockband" for the first time.

Loving your family. It hurts.

Wearing tanktops around the house, even on your bloated days.

Spending healthy time in solitude - saying no is sometimes good.

Needing no more than the love of the Lord. Finally enough.

Telling a friend your opinion. You might lose her.

Walking to the pool in a swimsuit. You carry your towel this time instead.

Teaching a fifty minute lesson on sixty minutes of shut-eye.

Telling a boy in your life to shape up and start treating you with respect. Another to leave you alone. He's done enough.

Forgiving others of the things you so easily forgave yourself.

Writing, "so glad the Lord healed you. remain faithful to him," in a card to a classmate.

Moving across the country.

Living with a future secure in the Lord.

I've grown.

Drama

I've never been one for drama. Let me try that again. I HATE DRAMA!!!!!!!!

Maybe God forgot to put that female trait into my mixings. A couple situations lately have led me to test my patience.

I don't know how many billion versions of the "I have a stalker" speech I've heard. Everyone has a stalker. Women were made to reflect the beauty of God's image. Duh! You're going to turn some heads. Duh! Some boys take things too obsessively. Live with it. You're not the only one.

I also have a hatred of the conversations sprung from beginning stages of an unclaimed relationship. We all get married if we choose to. Be yourself--you'll have to eventually show your true colors to that person anyway. If you like him, like him. If you don't, maybe you shouldn't flirt with him all day and tell your girlfriends at night how bad you feel for him for trying so hard with you when you're not even remotely interested.

I like to live in the open.

Be honest with yourself. Be honest with others. It lessens the drama.

I probably create my own drama by being a drama-hater, but to each his own character flaws. (Or should I say, to each her or his own character flaws, being language nowadays has to be all uber sensitive so nobody gets hurt).

Plagued by Dreams

Something is not right in my heart.

Wounded

I have a scar on my right arm up near the elbow. About an inch long, a white scrape from a nail on a 2 by 4 that I was nailing into the floor of a demolished house in the New Orleans. I love this scar. In the summertime, I look down at my skin and there it is...I smile.

Some scars are good. We are proud of them! Showing off our bruises and scrapes to one another evoking "oooh"s and "awhh!"s. Proof that we have traveled. We have served. We have lived.

There are other scars. Scars that effect us deeply. That which we carry with us for the rest of our lives. We try to hide these scars, but they too effect other people.