Little Albus

I have always wanted to see a wild hummingbird up close. Last week, I got to hold one in my hands.

Ben & I found a tiny, stunned hummingbird lying on the garage floor the other day. It looked like he had gotten trapped in the garage, then nearly knocked himself out by trying to fly thru the glass window pane. I put a pair of garden gloves on, but he was so small that I was afraid to pick him up for fear of crushing him. So we slid the little guy onto a piece of paper and carried him to the safety of our garden where he could recover beneath my bleeding heart bush.

I, of course, took pictures. He held very still for the pictures. I think he thought I was going to eat him.

Heavy shoes

I have to admit: I'm sick of this charade—wearing shoes that don't quite fit. They were never meant to be mine in the first place, yet I try and I try to make them the right size. Instead, the empty spaces between skin and suede amplify the squelch of these awkward attempts to move forward. My, my; don't these shoes feel heavy.

Where is joy? Where is weightlessness? Where is freedom? Where is hope?

Discouraged by the weight of what the world expects, I bear the burden of these doleful soles; this wanton destiny. How unnecessary.

My heart pulls me towards lost loves: music, dance, drama, art, writing. How I wish to find my way back.

"Come to me—just come to me."

Naughty Jokes

Gotta love naughty jokes with great friends. :-)

More than good enough

I remember the first time that I thought that I wasn't good enough. I was in fifth grade and the teacher had asked for three volunteers to make three different journals for some kind of class project. I raised my hand, probably with a huge, excited grin on my face. I loved making things.

I got home that afternoon and began to search the house for cool things that I could use to make my journal. I found some strong cardboard for the covers in my dad's studio, and some awesome fourth of July fabric from my mom's closet to cover the cardboard with. I punched holes in the cardboard after gluing on fabric, then found some ribbon to tie the covers and pages together. The result was a thin, but sturdy, notebook-sized journal. I even tied the end of the ribbon around the end of the pen so that you would never lose the pen. I was so proud.

I couldn't wait to show my journal to the class. I was sure that they would love it. I probably even imagined all of the great things that they would say about it, and how happy they would be because of what I had created. When I got to class that morning, the two other girls already had their journals out. My heart sank when I saw them.

They were beautiful: nice and thick with soft, stuffed, beautifully embroidered covers. One of them even had lace. I felt…bad. My stomach churned and my eyes fell to the ground as I realized that my journal looked small and ugly compared to these two, handmade gems; it looked like garbage.

Then my teacher and classmates asked me where mine was. I felt a pang of regret and shame as I considered what everyone would think when they saw mine; suddenly the things I imagined my classmates saying about my journal were quite different. So I lied. I told them that I didn't make one: that I forgot. After an awkward pause, the teacher asked if one of the other girls moms would want to help her make another journal. Rachel happily accepted.

Nothing could peel my eyes off of my feet. I hated my stupid journal…

Later that day, a pair of my friends got my to confess that I had made a journal. I reluctantly showed it to them. They thought it sucked.

What I had to offer was not good enough: my creativity and enthusiasm didn't cut it. Somehow, I unknowingly came to the conclusion that I wasn't good enough, and that mentality stuck with me as I grew; the lie only growing larger and deeper.

God is the one who reminded me of this event. I had no memory of it until he gently brought it up. I cried as I relived the pain and embaressment. I cried even more when God told me what He thought of my journal. He said He loved it. He loved my creativity. He loved my enthusiasm. He loved me and was totally and completely delighted with my creation and the heart behind it. He would have framed my little journal and hung it on the wall in the most public room of his house, just so that He could brag about me when people asked about it.

Man does that wreck me. I crumble whenever I think about it His wild, enthusiastic, boundless and unconditional love for me. What I do is more than good enough—I am always good enough. Ah! It almost too much to take sometimes.

Thank you for you love, God; Papa. I don't understand it. Please wash truth over my mind, heart and spirit. I function out such a weave of lies. I want to be confident in the truth about myself, and about your character. You are so good. I love you. :-)

Badges tucked in the journal of his soul

I recently had a dream that I thought is worth sharing. Like so many of my meaningful dreams, the meat of this one was sandwiched in between the hazy nonsense typical of most dreams. In this case, I think the non-sense had something to do with Madonna and the cast of Heroes…

Like the clear rays of sunlight after a sudden break in the clouds, the surprisingly relevant and meaningful chunk of a dream emerged, abruptly interrupting the randomness of the Madonna/Heroes storyline.

Ben ran up to me with a wide, glowing smile on his face. He was so excited. He lifted a small journal into my view: the journal had a soft, suede leather cover, and it was about the same size as his hands. He opened the journal and said "look!" then he flipped through the pages. When looking straight down at the pages from above, each of them had a deep cut-out in the various shapes, each containing a badge of some sort.

The cut-out look of the pages resembled the "flask in a book" idea, except instead of masking a desire to drink with a desire to be "holy", the badges on each page were real badges that Ben had achieved through his personal and spiritual growth. The badges acted as mile-markers for his growth. The journal is like the journal of his soul and spirit.

When viewing the pages from the side, they appear to have the same weight, thinness, and bendability/turnability as an average 20lb page that you would find in any book.

I didn't really see what any of the badges where or even really what they looked like as he flipped excitedly through the journal to one of the final pages—he was flipping through the pages way too quickly in excitement.

We got to the last filled page in seconds. On this page there was displayed a badge that Ben had very recently earned. I don't know if I actually saw what the badge looked like, because I really can't remember it, but I knew exactly what it meant. This badge marked Ben's ability to effectively lead his family.

Then he said "Look! There are only two pages left!" Sure enough, only the last two pages were left unfilled. Somehow, I saw the next page, and on it there was an a deep cut-out in the shape of an open book.

My strong sense about this dream is that it is an encouraging peek into Ben's spirit as it is growing and has grown. When he showed me the badge he had just earned for learning how to effectively lead his family, I realized that it's true! He has learned how to lead his family. He's totally ready to lead.

I also knew that he was going to promptly begin the next stage of his growth, which is open-book shaped…I wonder what that shape means. Another very large portion of understanding that I had during the dream was what the end of this journal means: when Ben's growth places the last two badges in the last two pages, then he will be ready to be a father.

In this dream, he also knew that that was what the end of the journal meant, and this knowledge was part of his excitement. He was telling me that he's not ready for kids right now, but he will be soon, and he was so excited for that.

I'm not saying that the end of this season of Ben's growth means that we're going to immediately start popping out babies. I'm just saying that he'll be ready. That's all. Having kids hasn't been weighing on my mind or heart lately, but the desire is, of course, always there, no matter how buried it may be in my subconscious.

I feel very encouraged by this dream. I felt peace fall into place somewhere in my spirit when the dream ended—the peace clicked into place while I was still sleeping. I understand that he's not ready right now, but that he will be, and that just because he's not ready now doesn't mean that he doesn't also look forward to the day when we start having kids with just as much excitement and heart as I do.

Yes, Ben. You have grown a lot, especially in the last year. I love the way that you've grown. My trust and respect for you has grown a lot as well, and my love for you has deepened and settled; like the roots of a young tree finally strong enough to establish a permanent home.

Homesick

I'm so homesick. I'm so exhausted: too exhausted to adequately describe my homesickness. Instead I'll leave you with a simple list of the things that I'm homesick for.

I miss (in no particular order):

1. using my own dishes
2. cooking my own meals
3. cleaning my own house/flat/apartment
4. taking pictures for myself rather than for other people
5. green leaves and blooming flowers
6. the smell of summer nights
7. being able to eat without feeling like I'm going to throw up
8. being free from the obligations of school
9. laughing so hard that my stomach aches and my cheeks hurt
10. daydreaming
11. being confident (I'm so unconfident these days)
12. the sweet breath of the Holy Spirit, calling me nearer…
13. …and I miss the feeling the freedom to respond to that call
14. having hope.

Every coming change in my life, no matter how big or small it may be, feels so close and so far away at the same time—like shapes rising gently against a distant, faded horizon. Will I ever reach them? Maybe they're only illusions.

I'm homesick, but I don't exactly know where home is. Does that make me homeless? I sure feel homeless.

Cry like David

Patterns. History makes them so easy to spot. All you have to do is take one step back, then there they are; repeating shapes and colors in a tapestry of life experiences. Actions and reactions. The patterns in my own life are almost painfully obvious. My journals are full of long records of my internal process. Most are quite melancholy, and more than just a few teeter of the border between realistic and melodramatic.

I am an extrovert . . . aren't I? From what I understand, extroverts are characterized largely by their need to process through things verbally with other people. Check. I am a verbal processor. I feel better when I talk to people about how I'm feelings. Introverts are characterized by their reservation. They process life internally, desiring to analyze and dissect their life experience in solitude rather than with another person. I can't do that. My thoughts and conclusions tend to darken the longer I try to process events by myself. I need people to talk to to balance my own self-destructive tendencies. I need truth in the face of all the lies about myself that I buy into.

However, there are times when I need to dig into my heart without anyone else present; times when I need to pull my emotions out and take a good, long look at them. I don't pay enough attention to my emotional health. I often can't even begin to talk to another person about my feelings without first known what my feelings really are. Yes. I bury my feelings. I don't think it's intentional. I don't have any horrible memories that my subconscious needs to repress. I just have a tendency to pay more attention to events and other people more than I pay attention to myself. So the digging is necessary. It's a conscious decision that I need to make from time to time in order to keep myself healthy. And how do I dig? By journaling.

And so, the pattern emerges: Brianna has been doing alright for a while. A few months pass before Brianna notices that she's getting all weird and anxious. Brianna realizes that it's time for her to dig into herself and evaluate her emotions. Brianna stops by her blog to journal about it. The journal entry is a long mess of disjointed thoughts and feelings, bordering melancholy melodrama. Brianna feels better after journaling. Months will pass before she feels the need to journal again. The next entry will be similar to the last. The pattern repeats itself.

I'm not always this dramatic or melancholy. It's just my way of hashing through my thoughts and feelings. I'm growing up, and growing up can be confusing sometimes: so many new thoughts and feelings. My perspective has been slowly, but steadily changing as I grow. God has had His hands in my heart for quite some time. Probably my whole life. This season of spiritual and emotional surgery has been tough. He's taking the rebellion and insecurity out of me, one piece at a time, and replacing them with truth and stability.

Guess what. I've been fighting Him here and there, and He just laughs, waiting for my tantrums to subside. I don't think that He has any intention of taking the fight out of me. He's just redirecting it. I've got to stop trying to fight Him. I will, eventually.

For now, the patterns continue, but I sense a change. A wise old man whom I look up to and deeply respect, once told me to journal the things that have life in them. Life. Maybe there's more life in these old entries that I realize. As melodramatic and melancholy as they can be, they're true; they express and expose the true feeling of my heart. I'm learning that the value of such cries greatly outweigh the value of appearances: they mean more to God than saying or doing the right things.

And so, I stand in awe of a God who loves me, even though I often count myself as a melodramatic fool of a girl. I will never fully understand the wild heart that God has for me–at least, not on this side of heaven.

There's that fear again, coming through the grass

To the one whose spirit shine dances like frothing, liquid gemstones, refracting lustrous glow:

Where am I? Where are your hands? Where are my hands? Where is my heart?

Everywhere I look my vision is blocked by a pair of grinning eyes: so challenging, so riveting; so stagnant. This unwanted stare arrests me, holding me in a vulnerable state. It confronts my confidence and interrupts my thoughts. I feel paralyzed, stuck; trapped like a cat in a corner.

I can't see where I'm going. I can't see where I am.

Where did this fear come from? Why am I suddenly so unsure about so many things? I'm unsure about myself. I'm unsure about my future and whether I'll ever get a good, somewhat steady graphic design job in Madison. I'm unsure about Ben--does he really love me? Does he really want me? Is he hiding things from me?

The very ground on which I stand feels like it could melt away at any moment. If the ground fails, where will I land?

Hope seems so far away. My nights have been restless and and my dreams troubled. I've chosen to close my ears and turn away from you, beautiful one. I've done this because I believe that I'm bad, and therefore, you shouldn't love me. You shouldn't whisper my secret name in quite places. You shouldn't beckon me nearer. I shake my head bitterly when you show me how you love me. Your promises make my heart ache. I want to push them away, but I can't. Instead I wear them like a string of jewels around me neck, but then I cover them with a scarf.

I am so bad, my Lord! Look at all the things I've done! Look at the condition of my heart. How can you look at me? How can you call me beautiful? How can you call me your bride? How can you look at me and say that it was worth it, even if I were the only one; that you'd do it all over again?

I'm so stuck. I can't get myself out of this one, love. I just can't get myself to let go. I've been covering your promises with fear and mistrust, doubt and shame; I've been hiding my face, because I'm just not worth it . . . or at least I shouldn't be.

Why do I push so hard against your affections for me? Why do I believe that I'm so bad? That I'm so unlovable? Where did this come from?

I am so insecure right now. I don't fell like I can fight this one my own. I'm just so tired.

Somehow, I feel your hands on me despite all of this. I can't do a damn thing for myself. You're still carrying me. Thank you for having patience with me. Thank you for loving me.

I'm not empty. I'm not numb. I'm not lost. I'm not in danger. I'm just . . . well, I don't really know where I am.

"The Land Between Solar Systems" by Mum is the song that best describes how I feel right now. The atmosphere, the pace, all the little sounds, the lyrics--the whole dern song.

Please break me down, beautiful one. Lately I've been pushing things away as quickly as possible when they feel like they're too close to me heart. I hate it. I don't understand why I'm doing this to myself. Please break me down so that I have to come running to you with my whole heart again. Please destroy this fear in me--pull this insecurity out by its roots. I can't do it. I don't have the strength.

I don't want to believe lies about myself anymore. Please bend your light this way, beautiful one.

(( God is with me ))

The Homecoming

While we live in these earthly bodies, we groan and sigh, but it’s not that we want to die and get rid of these bodies that clothe us. Rather, we want to put on our new bodies so that these dying bodies will be swallowed up by life. God himself has prepared us for this, and as a guarantee he has given us his Holy Spirit.

So we are always confident, even though we know that as long as we live in these bodies we are not at home with the Lord.

--2 Corinthians 5:4-6 (New Living Translation)

Welcome home, Kyle. We look forward to the day when we get to join you guys. We'll miss you like mad in the mean time though.

A letter

To my beautiful God,

This year has been the most difficult year of my life, but it has also been the most rewarding, fruitful, and honest. I learned more about your faithfulness, your goodness, and about the nature of your love i this short time than I think I have my whole life.

God, you are so good. So good. Thank you for your goodness. Thank you for your urgent faithfulness. You rescured Ben and I out of a web of lies and deceit. It was a battle won by your hand; a battle that could only have been won by your hand. Thank you for saving us. Thank you for breaking into our lives. You are so good. Thank you for that solid lesson in what it means to love people like Jesus does; to love like a savior. It's written that whatever God builds up, no one can tear down. I know this is true. Thank you for the things you've built in me. Thank you for the things you are building in me now. Thank you that I'm teachable. Please keep my heart soft and honest so that I'll always be teachable.

Thank you for calling to me in the dark. Thank you for being my strength when I just don't have any. Thank you for pulling me out of the destructive thoughts, and thank you for your gentle touch as you turn my chin towards your instead. Thank you for peeling the darkness from my eyes, revealing the wonder and the power of your truth to me. Thank you for catching my gaze.

You remind me of a warm summer morning in a hidden place of vast white sands and ocean song where the light is so bright that all color fades gently into soft glow. The warmth of the sea breeze is like your breath, and the ocean song is your voice. I want to know you like a lover. Thank you for coming dangerously close: please come closer, love. You're all that matters.

Love,

Brianna Danielle

A thankful heart prepares the way for Jesus mine.