Lizard Lesson

Lizard lessons, because I like alliteration, I'm in a desert, and the lizards seem to be the only thing moving. So my lessons, the one's I've gotten a grip on so far, are the only things that seem to be moving in my life. Other than my oldest turning 20 in two weeks, my only daughter looking at only 5 months of high school before heading across the country to college, and my youngest being the "only lonely" left at home; a position I played quite well myself as a teen. I know there are lessons in there somewhere, but for now the obvious ones. So my crazy American/Afghan friend? The one who told me how much he loved his desert experience and I told him he was crazy? So, it turns out he might have been right, although I still think he's crazy. I'm not giving him too much credit yet, 'cause I'm still sitting by this rock, but I have grown to love this place. I don't know if I'll ever understand all that's changed in me these past 20 months, but I know I love this place. I was at a church two months ago, trying hard to participate in the song part of the service. I was singing and closing my eyes and everything. All I could think about was how desperately I wanted to run out of the building, away from the noise, the people and the wall that was separating my heart from Jesus' heart and go someplace quiet, someplace alone and still and just listen to the wind blow and wonder about this God I love. And like the quick wit that I am, it took me all of 15 minutes (ha!) to realize..."Oh, the desert! I WANT to be in the desert!" That was the day I stopped feeling sorry for myself and started loving this place I'm stuck. I longed for more and more moments of absolute quiet, absolute solitude. It is in this place that my heart has begun to understand Shalom and the Rest that Jesus invited me into. I love the sand, the rocks, the cactus, the little flowers that bloom in secret to be discovered by me if I'm still and pay attention. I love the solitude and being able to hear my heart for what might be the first time in my life. I feel more connected to God here, in a completely different way than I ever imagined. And despite writing this on a blog, I hunger for this part of the journey I'm on to remain my treasure just between me and the God I love. The depths to which He has touched me, I will never be able to convey in language, so that part remains truly secret, truly safe. Thank you, sweet Afghan friend. I miss your stories and I will always be grateful for the crazy way you share your life. But I bet my desert's better than yours.

Stirring the Pot

I became aware of one of my gifts about two years ago. I'm calling it a gift because despite the apparent destruction that comes initially, there is always a redemptive outcome eventually. I've named it Prophetic Atomic Bomb or Bob for short. (I call everything Bob. It's my favorite name for stuff, events, chairs.) So I use Bob, most of the time unknowingly, to stir up a mess of trouble. Or a pot of stuff. I see or sense something and act on it. Whether it's writing, or having a conversation or just ranting to my often-patient husband, daughter or friends. And then the demons of hell are unleashed. Some refer to this event as the Sh*t Hitting the Fan or Nuclear Holocaust. Not exactly beneficial to my self-esteem, but I need humbling if I plan on walking out Micah 6:8.

Apparently, I've done it again. Somewhere along the way in this desert journey, I've unleashed some sort of Angry Christian spirit that has come after me and my daughter. I'm actually excited and terribly curious to see how God will, once again, redeem this. I love to watch Him work.

I have a cousin that I haven't seen in 15 years or so. A guy I drop a Christmas card to every year but never hear from. Well, he emailed me this year. I was so glad to hear from him until I read what he had to say. Something about the end of the world and a 74 disc DVD set that he sent to his mother full of warnings, predictions, and get out of Hell Free cards. He admonished me to log onto a particular website, so that I too could fully comprehend the terrible destruction that is upon us. I felt so loved (mild sarcasm). After all the dire warnings and demands that I understand our doomed plight he ended with "I hope this finds you well". Really?

Time in this desert life has encouraged me to look at me and make changes in how I love people. So instead of my usual response of "wow, what a nut job you've become!" I responded with joy at his search for truth and then shared with him titles of books I've been reading, the url for my blog and encouraged him to check it out, if he so desired. Lovely, encouraging, hopeful and bragging a wee bit on Jesus.

Well, to my great surprise (or not, I'm not sure), my dear cousin responded within 5 minutes to my end of what I thought was conversation. Turns out, this wasn't a conversation, it was a lecture and I had failed the pop quiz. The anger, arrogance, vitriol and rage with which he responded almost knocked me off my chair. Who the h*&ll was I talking too? Has this guy been pent up in the west desert of Arizona so long he's lost his mind? What church has he been going to? But as I sat and pondered his end of our "conversation" I saw so clearly that this is the church I was a part of for so long. The one that made me sick of spirit and depressed. My cousin's response did not resemble Jesus in any way, shape or form. Test the spirits, Paul admonished. Did anything my cousin extend to me resemble Peace, Patience, Kindness, Self-Control, Love, Joy? Nope. And all because he is caught up in an End of the World panic. Perfect love casts out all Panic.

News Flash! The end has been coming for a few thousand years now. You can read all about it in a little book I like to call Revelation. I'm pretty sure Jesus' message to the 7 churches in the beginning of this tome by John had something to do with faithfulness, compassion, giving. Pretty sure there wasn't anything in there about Arrogance, Panic, Fear, Rage and dissing your cousin. Pretty sure. But I'll need to read it again to be certain.

Let's say it is the end of the world and we're all going down a deep dark rabbit hole. My guess is, God already knows. He knew before the Bible was written because like Dr. Who, God travels in time, except He doesn't really travel because He is in all times at ... uh, all times. So if God knew about this end of world freak out, but told us to love our enemies, care for widows and orphans, give to the poor, multiply food, heal the sick, comfort the sad anyway, how does Doomsday dismiss the two greatest commandments? Love the Lord your God with all your Heart, Mind, Soul & Strength and Love Your Neighbor as Yourself except in the case of world crisis? Don't think so.

Then, my daughter read the blog of a leader at a teen intensive she went to this past summer at a Prayer ministry in KC. J's doing research for her senior thesis and wants to use this guy's comments to support her presentation on what's wrong with the church. Turns out, he's made her famous. He's written an entry decrying her leaving early from the intensive and how she manipulated God by "laying a fleece before Him." The blog is written with the same shockingly sad arrogance, know-it-all, holier-than-thou crap my cousin spewed. No humility. No wondering. No questions. Just cement-like certainty that he's right, she's wrong and his hope that she doesn't end up in Hell for offending God this way. Again, I really want to live in Micah 6:8. This has given me the desire to pursue it more diligently.

And this KC ministry is founded on God's letter of love in Song of Solomon. You know, the God that is the Kindest, most Gentle, most Loving, most Compassionate, most Patient, most Joyful, Most Hopeful person you will ever meet. Did I see that Jesus in this man's writings. Nope. And we read several of his entries. they were all so arrogant it actually made me frightened for him. Boot shaking, get on the floor and duck down real low fear.

So the cat's out of the bag, Pandora's box is opened, The bats of hell have been unleashed, and the wild dogs of the north are on the move. I'm sure I could think up more metaphors, but you get the point. What a Mess. But God does the best stuff with Mess. I'm not kidding. Look at me. I can't wait to see what He'll make of this and how He'll use it to change me.

My Father's Imprint

It's amazing to me the life I've begun to find in this desert. Sitting here for months on what appears to be barren ground, has given me the time to look at things previously unnoticed. The tiny flowers that have gone ignored in the busyness of my life, my memories long forgotten, have begun to catch my eye. Coming more into focus as I start to pay attention, really pay attention to something God is trying to tell me about His imprint in my life. One of these revelations is about my Dad. All of my life, up until now, I've had a story about my Dad and his presence in my life. About how he failed me, hurt me, abandoned me. That had to have been a mistake God made to give me such a Dad. I was very clear about the scars he had left, but now I see that there was more.

The story goes like this: He left my Mother. Often. Finding women who believed his handsome words of love, he abandoned us over and over only to come back when his mask slipped and the object of his most recent affection wanted what every woman he slept with wanted; a relationship, commitment, longevity of love. He only wanted assurances that he was truly a man. One who could make the conquest and have his desires met without attachment or responsibility. He was a very broken man. But, at the same time, a very talented and handsome man. Charming with a quiver full of quickly retrieved and fired puns that had us groaning for their valiant yet failed attempts at humor. He was charming and witty and thought for a while that maybe he could be Dick Van Dyke. He adopted some of Cary Grant and Tony Curtis. My dad could do voices. He wanted to be Mel Blanc. He could paint, carve things from wood, build things, act, impersonate cartoon characters, write and be adoring. But his absences made him more like a ghost that would visit on occasion than a father. I thought he left me only a broken heart, but God has shown me the treasures in my Dad that He has used to imprinted me with.

Getting away from the mold of the American Church and stepping into my own skin, I've discovered that not only am I much like my Mother, who I miss terribly, but I am more of my Dad than I ever realized. My love of books started with my Dad who ignored us over a good Sci-Fi or Louise L'Amour. What better way to get into his world than read a good book across the room from him. My Mom saw that love of books and signed me up for numerous book clubs. Every month a new book would come in the mail just for me. It was like Christmas and it was magical. I'd get dropped off at the library to browse for hours, even at the ripe old age of 7 or 8. When my Mom came to get me I had armfuls of books to take home and devour before next week's visit. My dad gave me that love which was then nurtured by my Mom who was a school teacher and reading was life. My Dad even wrote a book, never published, sometime before his death. The last I heard it was over 900 pages long and no one would ever read it. So, I guess my long winded writing came from him, too.

I saw a photo two months ago in a design magazine I bought for remodeling ideas. The article was about Wichita's carthalite architecture. The photo was of an art supply store, long gone, but seeing that photograph was like water to my dehydrated soul which poured out a flood of memories. I remembered my Dad and I shopping together at that store and then I would sit in our Kansas basement for hours watching him apply acrylic onto canvas. I'd watch him sketch out his thoughts and then cover them with the vibrant colors of the 60's. I still have one of his pieces. It's titled Sunburst and it's ridiculously large with lots of orange, yellow and red, but it's one of the few things I have of him that didn't get lost or sold before his death. I love Monet, Renoir, Rembrandt, Michelangelo, Da Vinci and Van Gogh because of my Dad.

I love the smell of sawdust and the feel of a good power tool because of my Dad. He and I would go into the garage on warm summer nights to watch the June bugs gather as he worked his magic at the table saw. Creating chess boards and pieces that he would teach me the game on. Building cabinets for the garage so Mom could organize our lives. Carving the head of Mohammad Ali when he was still Cassius Clay. Sitting in my house is a wooden hand, a replica of my Dad's hand, with a thumbs up, and my Dad's pun of a title; Thumb Fun. It's cracking and the light green stain my dad rubbed on it is fading, but I don't think I can ever get rid of it. My Dad told me those little creepy June bugs that I would let crawl on my hands were for me because my birthday is in June. I loved those little bugs, the sound of the saw running, the feel of the sandpaper on my fingers and brushing the lovely and aromatic sawdust out of our hair before going into the house long after bedtime.

I love theater because of my Dad. The sounds and smells of an empty theater. The mystery of all that happens backstage to make the magic happen upfront. All because of his desire to be discovered and become famous. Every summer he performed with the Wichita Crown Players; a group formed by a mortician that gathered to put on good old fashioned melodramas. Player pianos, popcorn in buckets, sing-a-longs with the audience, the villain, the damsel in distress, and the hero. My dad always played the villain, with a dark cape and a menacing black mustache. It was campy, over the top, but so much fun. I had my first love in one of those summer productions. I was 7 and he was 18. For weeks during rehearsals he would give me piggy back rides up and down the rented theater aisles. I was sure we would marry.

There were also attempts at real theater with The Arc, a production about Joan of Arc, which my Dad built a stool to use for her inquisition. I keep that faded stool in my attic. He did a a few productions of summer stock and he tried movies. He was actually good for the 3 minutes he was in the beginning of "SuperVan", but the rest of movie was not worth watching. I was so proud of him, despite being embarrassed around my friends who endured that awful movie with me. One of his last acting jobs was in a very poor made for TV movie about a grown Tom Sawyer. My dad played an angry judge, but not very well. His dad had been an aspiring actor back in the 30's. A Day at the Races with the Marx brothers was his only commercial success. Leon Otis Seeley then slipped into oblivion with a few poor choices of roles and an angry wife who demanded he quit acting and get a real job. My Dad followed in his Father's footsteps.

All of these treasures that God used to make me who I am, so close to my DNA that I never noticed them until I was put in this desert to do nothing but think and wonder and question. I never thought I was creative. I watched my Dad with awe and wonder at his gifts, so wasted, so untrained, so broken, but wonderful. My sister taught herself to play guitar, sew, draw and cook. She's a gifted writer, too. I figured she got all the creative genes that were left and I got to be youngest, which had it's benefits. But, I have heard God's whisper in my heart over this past year. All that my Dad was, all the time I spent with him, God used those moments, brief and unpredictable, to pour something into me that He has awakened and I'm very excited.

I'm going to take a pottery class in February. A gift from my husband. I'm signing up for stained glass lessons soon, too. And I'm going to learn to take this love of beauty and make something of beauty to share and explore and wonder over. And for the first time since I was 11 and my Dad left for good, I am truly grateful for Ralph Seeley and the gift that he was to me.

a death in the desert: abandoning christianity to find christ

Is there a word that's drier than dry? Desert experiences are often described as dry, but this isn't dry. This goes way beyond dry. This is beyond arid, droughty, sere, thirsty or waterless.

I've experienced dry before. You know those times when God seems distant and silent. But relationships are good, the routine of church seems normal, you still read your bible, use all the lingo and feel as though you belong. The times that God isn't near, but it doesn't really matter because everything else is still in place and life goes on. You believe that God will show up any day and it will be alright. I thought that was pretty dry.

But not this time. This is the desert experience I've been dreading my whole life. The one like Moses lived in for 40 years before God showed up in a pyromaniac's frustration, a bush that wouldn't burn. Forty years! I don't know that I have 40 more years and I sure as hell don't want to spend it here in this vast wasteland of doubts, questions, emptiness and the sound of my prayers bouncing around my head like echoes off a canyon wall.

This is beyond dry and it's my fault. Two years ago, I started asking questions about the american church and the culture of christianity I live in. It seemed that things weren't lining up with the bible that I knew or the words of Jesus. It seemed as though we were working really hard to convince ourselves and maybe others that this thing was really working and that we were really making a difference, just like Jesus wanted us to. But the more I really started to look, the more questions I had. The more wonderings I wandered through until I wandered my way into this desert.

I wondered why the abortion rate in church was now as high or higher than outside the church. I wondered the same thing about divorce. I wondered why we sang songs about giving Jesus everything, but less than 5% of christians give even a tenth of their income to their local church to support the staff and facility expenses and even fewer give money to care for widows and orphans around the planet. I wondered why so many people come late to worship, yet say they believe Jesus is among us. If we really believed he was among us wouldn't we be on time or even early to meet with him? I wondered what it was about american christians that the muslim and liberal american cultures hated so much. I wondered about what Jesus meant by "love your neighbor" and why radio personalities claiming to be christians were so vicious to those who had differing opinions. I wondered why the culture of my kid's private christian school was rampant with underage drinking and premarital sex and yet no one wanted to see it or have a conversation about the pain these kids must be feeling. I wondered why my buddhist sister was nicer than many christians I know. I wondered why so many christians seem sad and angry. I wondered why churches spend millions of dollars a year building bigger, nicer and newer facilities when 30,000 children die every day around the world from hunger. Hunger. An entirely preventable death.

And without realizing it I began to abandon christianity to find Christ. Never in a million years did I think I would contemplate ending my status as a christian. I've been a christian since I was 13. Not a very good one, mind you. I got pretty lost there for a while in my teens and drank too much, took a few drugs, smoked a little pot, slept around and had two abortions. But I pulled it together when I was 21 and started over. I was never going to be as good as my friend, Michelle. She'd grown up in a christian home and assured me her sins weren't as bad as mine. But I'd take second or even third-class christianity over being out there in the world, lost and alone. God's taken me to so many places since then and being a christian has meant following Christ. But lately, not so much. The strength of the christian culture in american is flowing swiftly to God-knows-where when the world is heading to hell, which might mean it's time to change rivers.

So 18 months ago I asked God: "Take everything away from me that's not Jesus. Everything that's man-made, american cultural christianity and not Jesus. I need to know who Jesus really is and what He really meant, because this church thing isn't working for me anymore and it sure doesn't seem to be helping the world. amen."

Sometimes God hears my prayers and then he answers and I'm not so sure I'm glad he was listening at that particular moment and that he took me seriously. The first year after that prayer was great. All the stuff he was stripping off of me I was completely glad to be rid of. We were in total agreement about what was wrong with american flag-flying christianity and I loved the freedom I was beginning to experience. I loved reading authors from the 'left' and feeling a little afraid of the adventure, but not too afraid. It was just exciting enough to be dangerously fun. I started asking more questions and reading the blogs of people who were asking the same questions and weren't freaked out by my wonderings.

That's when he got to the bone. He pulled off things I'd lived with all my life and that I had my identity wrapped around. Without those things, who was I? It got harder to go to church with my identity wavering and my life-long struggle with mild depression getting deeper. My ability to fake it was no longer functioning. I didn't fit anymore. I had more questions every week. But the church was uncomfortable with my questions, my doubts and my wonderings. I had no one to talk to. There was no one else in my circle of friends who was thinking these thoughts or asking these questions. There were plenty of blogs about this stuff and entire churches out there that were on board with realigning their lives to match Jesus' and not the culture's. But no one near me except my 17-year old daughter was there. We were no help to each other and her doubts fed mine and my questions gave birth to more for her. We were together in a desert alone, by ourselves. And for the first time, without God.

I've had a long and fruitful life with God since re-giving him my life 26 years ago. We've been close and we've pretty much agreed on most of the stuff he's done in my life. But not this time. This time I've grown very, very afraid of him and scared to death of what he's going to take away from me next. I have a feeling it will be everything because I told him more times than I can count that he could have it all, but I guess I didn't know what I was talking about.

Nine years ago, my sweet Mom was diagnosed with a metastasized cancer from 23 years prior. She died within 3 months despite my desperate prayers and the prayers of my church. My estranged dad, who I had not seen for 10 years, died 11 days after my Mom. Nine weeks later, on my Mom's birthday, her mother died. That wasn't a desert. That was a cave. A dark, scary, smelly cave. But God was very near. Worshipping him in the midst of that pain was the hardest thing I've ever done. But, I loved him like I had never loved him before. I was also very mad at him. To pray so hard, to believe so desperately, and to have all my moorings cut out from under me and to be set adrift changed me in ways I still can't get a hold of.

This feels worse than that. My expectation is that soon my life will parallel Job's and God will take my husband next. Then my three children, the dog, the two cats and finally the house will burn down. But only after we finish the remodeling. My oldest son will fail his sophomore year of college. My daughter's eating disorder and depression will worsen. My youngest son will start drinking like his christian classmates. These are my fears as I sit in this desert that doesn't seem so much like an experience as I've lost my salvation. But God has my life and can spend it on bubblegum if he so chooses. I'm truly afraid he will.

This is the same God that I've known as loving. I mean really loving. He's loving and he's good. He's really good. But he's also King of the universe, creator of everything including nebula and amoeba. He has the power to wipe me off the planet without so much as a "how do ya do" or "have an apple'. He knows my every weakness, every flaw and every sin. If I was him, I might consider wiping me off the planet, too. He knows that my prophetic gift, the one He gave me, has been used to hurt, maim and deeply wound countless people, including the ones I love the most. He knows that I wear my insecurity like a shield of arrogance and wield my fear like a sword, cutting the heart of my husband more often than not. Why in heaven's name would he want me here?

But somewhere He said he loved me, then He died for me and then He was raised from the dead. Not just so He'd be good as new, but better than new. Shinier, more powerful and able to leap tall galaxies in a single bound. And He's touched me, talked to me, healed me and been there. Until now.

And I've never felt more lost. The christian culture hasn't skipped a beat in my absence and they're still worshipping, serving in children's church and moving along like clockwork. They say He shows up on Sunday and that He's healed a few people. Somewhere in California He's healing hundreds of people. Maybe He'll heal my friend Isaac, who has an incredible wife, four young kids and terminal cancer. Maybe.

But in this place that I've wandered into while looking for Him? He's not here. At least not that I can see. I've wondered daily if I took a massively wrong turn and need to head back to the fork in the road so I can eat crow. Am I crazy? I went to the doctor for this deep depression I have been unable to crawl out from under like all the other times in my life. She's got me on drugs. Medication to combat the decrease in my hormones because I'm at 'an age.' I thought we were all at an age, but I guess I was wrong. I'm at 'an age' that no longer makes my brain happy, so a prescription has been written to make my brain happy again. This is the desert.

I can't believe I'm leaving a culture I've lived in for 26 years. I can't believe I'm taking anti-depressants. I can't believe I don't want to read my bible, go to church or pray. This is one very weird and hard place and I hope that whatever the lessons are that I'm supposed to be learning, I'm learning them really well so I don't ever have to come back here.

I have a friend who went through a life changing desert experience when he was 30. It lasted 3 years. It changed him. He looks back now and practically glows when reminiscing about those years in the desert. He knows the lessons he learned there and the value of the desert. He assures me that it will change me in ways I can't imagine and that I'll be forever grateful to God for this experience. I think my friend has had his brains baked in the Afghan sun. He lives in Afghanistan. It's a desert. He told me to enjoy the desert and that there was nothing I had to do except wait.

So, I wait, baking under the shade of a very small tree, leaning against a large boulder. I watch the lizards scurry across the hot sand, listen to the wind blow, admire the freedom of the eagles riding the upper drafts. And I wait to see what wonders God has in store for me. I think he may be crazy, too.

Yearning for the Holy

I think back to when this desert experience began, although I wasn't aware of being in the desert until I'd been there for .. how long? As amazingly fast as my brain operates, I am at times terribly slow. I think the ache for something else whispered it's presence to my heart when we moved to Austin 7 years ago. It was the loss of something holy in worship. Whether it was the trauma of leaving a place with so many memories of my children's young years, the group of women I had grown to love so deeply during our pursuit of worship dance, or the church where God had done so many things to me, for me, in me, through me that I lost count, my heart lost something when we came here. I attempted to keep keeping on with my worship dance, but it wasn't the same. First came the attacks by an angry, hurting, lonely pastor's wife who seemed to despise the freedom I danced in. Then came a new fellowship where dance was tolerated, but not blessed or protected. Dance, as untrained as I am, has been what makes my heart come alive since I was 2 or before. I was a disco queen for heaven's sake, but when I came to Jesus for the 3rd time since I was 13 it was in a denomination that banned dancing back in the dark ages. It was "of the devil" and I would have to never do that again. I loved Jesus and wanted to please Him so I turned my back on dance. Never to darken the door of another dance hall again. Unknown to my heart, a quarter or more of who I am died that day. Walking around 1/2 dead (ok, the math doesn't add up, but go with me) for the next 10+ years gave God an opportunity to raise me up. He loves working with dead, broken things. He's a little nuts that way and He's not offended that I say that. I asked.

At a worship conference in 1993, God handed me a gold wrapped box with a big red bow on it. I know it was from Him because despite the colors chosen they weren't at all gaudy or tacky. The box contained "DANCE" and He told me He was giving it back. It changed my life and the lives of everyone in our church. We formed a dance team and baby-stepped our way through for the next 6 years. And then we moved.

Dancing in worship was the one place that brought me face to face with God. I'm not kidding. I never feel as close to Him, as touched by Him, as pleasing to Him, as when I dance. It's weird and wonderful. I stopped dancing a year ago. It was like battle every Sunday with no one else out there. No one else understanding. I just didn't want to be that vulnerable or display that depth of intimacy anymore. Especially when I didn't feel backed up, protected, fought for by the leadership. And surprisingly, I was ok with it. All I longed for was His face. To sing a song that would usher me into the Holy of Holies so I could gaze on His heart and know Him. Really, Truly Know Him. Really. We sing so many songs in church these days that aren't worship. God Bless John Wimber for his legacy of Holy worship, but somewhere along the way from that revolution people started writing a whole lot of songs about us. Songs about who we are in Him, how He's changed us, healed us, delivered us. blah blah us us. Nice, true, but not worship.

I long for Worship. I long for a gathering of believers that truly believe the King of Kings is in the building and you can tell because everyone comes early instead of 20 minutes late. You can tell because every song, from the beginning to the end, is to Him. A conversation of Thanks, Adoration, Love and Awe. For Heaven's sake. Jesus died a horrible, painful, humiliating death so that the curtain that separated us from the Holy of Holies was torn in two and we could boldly enter the Holy of Holies where the Creator of Everything sits. It cost Jesus everything to give us that gift and how many Sundays have we frittered away this priceless gift with songs that are easy to sing, with no more than two verses, a good beat, and I give it a "7"?

I long for worship where God is so awed, revered, loved, adored and believed in, that no one can speak and all we do is lay on our faces in absolute wonder that He, so great and so powerful, loves us. He adores us. He gave everything for us.

Maybe someday He'll let me dance again, but I don't care what I do as long as I can have Him.

I May Have Found Jesus

I've been looking for the real Jesus over the past two years. Really looking, for the real one. Not the Americanized one, or the televangelist one, or the Oprah Winfrey one. But the real one. First of all, I think He's much more complex than I realized. Second, I don't think I'll ever find all of Him until I get to heaven. But for now, I think I found a piece of Him.

On Christmas Eve, my husband, three children and I went with friends to feed and clothe the homeless. We drove behind a little truck from Mobile Loaves & Fishes ministry and we stopped near a park where the homeless gather. We handed out fruit, juice, hot dogs, coffee, hot chocolate, clothing and dozens of beautiful handmade winter scarves that women from a local Jewish temple had been making for a year.

And I found Jesus. Nearly every person we cared for, every dirty, broken, lonely, lost, lovely person mentioned Him and asked for prayer. Real prayer. Sincere, honest, shameless requests for God to show up and touch them. They didn't pray for stuff, or success, or wealth, or a new car, or a trip to Aruba. They asked for Him to show up and save them from the cold. To save them from getting beat up again tonight. To touch them and give them wisdom on how to get back on track in their lives. They asked for prayer for their spouses in prison for drug possession. And they were thankful and grateful and rough around the edges. Jesus absolutely loves the broken, the hard, the lonely, the despairing, the foolish, the lost, the hungry, and the cold. I saw him that night, on Christmas Eve in the streets of Austin.

I can't wait to see where I find Him next.