Mandate of the Manatee

I can't explain why, but I absolutely love Manatees. With their large, white, squishy bodies, their adorably ugly faces, and the way they live their lives as though they completely understand the Shalom of Christ. The peaceful floating blobs of love and wonder.

I think about Manatees and their fragile, peaceful lives. I think about the scars they carry from the blades of boat motors and how each scar on each manatee makes them unique from every other manatee. I think about how those scars, long healed, will be part of who they are until they die. And still the Manatee swim about in their peaceful manner, seeming to accept the wounds as a part of life, a part of who they are and they aren't bothered by any of it.

Have I become so emotionally attached to my scars that I pretend the pain never happened? Do I let the pain determine who I am and how I'll live with other people? Do I offer advice to others to not dwell on their pain, get past it, get over it.

I want to be like the Manatee, where the Peace of Jesus defines who I am, and the scars that I carry only allow me to know that while I'm like every other human on the planet, I am also unique. Hurt will come and scars will form, but despite them, I pray that I can still rest and float and be at peace. The scars don't define who I am, they only mark the places I've been in the river.

Life Without Peaches

I call her my best friend, which is completely true, but she's so much more than that. Like Milky Way big more than that. She's the honey in my tea, the bean in my green, the fruit of my womb and she's 1,800 miles away, living out the as-near-as-perfect Freshman year of college that either of us ever dreamed possible. Pert Near Perfect. And I miss her. My soul has a hole that aches for her everything. I miss her smell, her laugh, the way she gets silly and sits upside down on the couch. I miss the brilliance of her thoughts and the depths of her insight. I miss the moments when she goes blond and says something totally stupid. I miss walking next to her and beaming with pride that she is so loved by so many and at the same time a mystery so worthy of the X-Files that it scares some off. I miss the way she can go to the refrigerator, pull out 5 random ingredients and make something unique and delicious. I miss her knocking on the bedroom wall at night to tell me to be quiet. I miss listening to her morning routine and the way she'd leave her room in a clutter. I miss nagging at her to clean up the mess she made in the kitchen/living room/dining room/library. I miss wondering when she's coming home from a day at the lake with her friends. I miss wondering if she's had an accident and lying dead in a ditch. Because they're always dead in a ditch if they're late. I miss the kettle whistling for 5 minutes because she forgot she was making tea. I miss road trips and shopping trips and girl lunches and chick flix. I miss having this other girl in the house that is so like me that I don't feel the least bit odd or weird or crazy because there are two of us almost exactly alike and that must mean we're OK.

Those nearly 19 years flew by like the hummingbird, Tweedle Dum, that stops by the feeder. When she was born, they/them told me that it would go by so fast and to appreciate every minute. Yea, right. There was that day when I just knew she was going to be Three and screaming at me F O R E V E R. But they/them were right. Before I blinked she was gone. All grown up. Living her own life and taking over the world.

I am immensely, hugely, ginormously, profoundly proud of her and all I can pray is that we will remain BFs forever. I love you, Face.

Earth Turn

I watched the earth turn this morning. I could say I watched the sunrise, but that wouldn't be true. Being slightly ADD, a label placed on those of us with brains that work at the speed of light, part of my brain wanders around asking questions about the weirdest stuff. Stuff like; why are manatees so puffy, where do the rabbits that eat my garden sleep at night, what do the hummingbirds think my plastic plants will do for them and what's up with this sunrise thing. If the earth really does revolve around the sun and not the other way around, then the sun isn't rising or setting. It's just being. So what should I call that thing that happens in the morning, when the light of the sun reaches my upstairs deck with its fabulous view? All I could come up with was Earth Turn, but that sounds like some low-budget space movie from the 50's, not that there's anything wrong with that. If I really believe that the earth turns, then I feel like a liar when I call what I saw this morning the Sunrise. It didn't, so I can't and that's just it. So whatever happens every morning, and for that matter every night, is awesome and amazing and unique and it is one of the most delightful things God and I watch together. I'm thinking of taking a picture of every "sunrise" for a year, just to sit and wonder about how gifted God is at painting the sky. I wonder if God calls every "sunrise" by a different name, like He does the stars. Maybe that's why, despite my ability to give names to anything, I just can't figure out what to call the daily event of seeing the sun pop up over the horizon. For now, I'll call it Bob.

Mountains in the Distance

When this journey began it started in a desert that I couldn't see. Then I saw the desert I was sitting in and I didn't like it. I've never liked the desert. When my Mom planted Yucca and broom grass in the rock garden in the front yard of our Kansas home, convincing the neighbors that we didn't fit, I started hating the desert. Although I loved donning my leather moccasins that we bought in New Mexico and walking through the rocks and cactus, pretending I was an Indian, which is what you were in 1969, not a Native American, I was still a little embarrassed that our yard looked like Arizona and not Kansas. Pretty silly, really, considering I have been embarrassed to be from Kansas until just recently, so either way I lost. The desert is hot, dusty (i hate dust), rocky and so unkempt. I mean, clean it up once in a while, huh! Put those boulders in some kind of order for beauty's sake!

When I mean "I saw" I really did. One of my gifts, I guess you can call it, is the ability to see stuff that I can't see with my eyeballs. Call it an over-active imagination, but proven throughout my many years of following Christ, what I see seems to be what He's doing. So I saw myself in this desert, sitting near a saguaro cactus and a clump of untidy boulders, watching the sun bake the rocks and stick-like plants. Yucc-a.

Until one of the last Sundays I attended worship in the church we joined 6 years prior. It was that Sunday, when the din of the music accompanied by chatting pew sitters and wandering late-comers, truly pushed me over the edge and all I could think about was running. Running anywhere to find a quiet, lonely place where the hot wind was in my ears and I could feel the peace of sitting and watching the sun rest on the land.

Again, slow learner/late bloomer...Oh! That's the desert. I love the desert. I have to go to the desert. I want to go to the desert. If I don't get out of church and go to the desert I'm going to die.

So for months, I'd check in with God about where we were, because He eventually showed up to sit by my rocks with me, and He'd show me a non-eyeball picture of what was up. I sat by those boulders for months, maybe a year. I watched eagles soaring on the hot wind, lizards lounging on hot rocks, shadows move across the landscape. I noticed tiny, delicate flowers push their way up through the sand and dirt to face the blazing sun and thrive in it's heat. I began to understand words like peace, still, rest. I began to stop and look and wonder at the beauty of this place that I had dismissed for so long as ugly, dry and barren.

Recently, I checked in again. So, Guys (Father, Son, HS), where am I now? I am standing, no longer sitting by the boulders I had come to know and love, and facing mountains. They're still at a distance and I'm still in the desert, but no longer is just desert before my eyes. I see mountains. Green, gray, tall mountains with shadows crossing their ridges and peaks. I know we're headed there and part of me is scared. I've had to climb mountains before and it was hard and horrible. Part of me is excited about the new thing ahead of me and that Jesus and I are going to do this thing together. And part of me is very sad. Sad to leave this place I've grown to love so dearly because I took a journey here with Jesus for a long time now, even though I never moved an inch, and this place is very precious to me.

Whatever the mountains hold for me, however the climb will look, I know that Jesus is right there with me and the aloneness that I've felt all my life disappeared in the desert and I'll need to remember that when the climb gets hard.

Mustard Seeds

God is showing up everywhere these days. The grocery store, the tattoo studio, my hair lady's shop, Target, the gas station. It seems that where ever I go, there He is. Just like David wrote about in Psalms, there is nowhere that God isn't.

I find myself getting excited about going out of the house to run errands. And not just because I like buying fresh fruit and filling the fridge to make my family happy, but because I just love striking up conversations with people about anything. I used to freeze around "the lost" because I knew that my job, as a good Christian, was to share Christ, like He was a cake or something. What if they're on a diet? What if they don't like cake or are Gluten-intolerant? Then what? How do I bring Jesus into a conversation about the price of peaches? All this panic, geez! Now I just want to be kind, caring, open, fun and I've had the coolest conversations with people. So many that I've had cards with my contact info printed on them to give to these lovely nobodies (to borrow from Jim Palmer) in case they want to ever talk again.

This may be that Freedom that Jesus was setting me free for. I feel so much of His delight when I'm just being free to be me, that I feel delight in the people He runs me into. And my first thought or question isn't "where do you go to church?" It has ceased to matter to me. What matters is can I, just for this moment I'm with them, convey any of God's love and delight He has for them?

It surprises me every day, the things that don't freak me out anymore. Like when I found out that friends from the church I no longer attend think I've gone off the deep end. The only thing I felt was sad. Sad that I've been judged and labeled without one conversation taking place. Without one of these people calling me up to ask me about this journey God has me on. For all the years of serving, caring, coming alongside in community and only 7 people out of the hundreds I know have asked any caring, open questions about what's up, and they were the ones who asked me how it felt to have people think I've gone lefty-wacko nuts. If I had heard this a year ago, it probably would have thrown me in to that familiar pit of depression and self-doubt I have lived in for all my life. But I know beyond anything I've ever known that I didn't pick this journey, Jesus did, and He really knows what He's doing. Really. I wish my friends who don't ask could know that about Jesus. Know it enough to delight in whatever God is doing in someone else even if they don't get it.

I still freak out at times. I still find myself asking Jesus "so, how are you going to get me out of this fine mess?" and then freaking when He doesn't appear out of the magic bottle I just rubbed. Like the day we got the test results back for my son, who will be 15 in 11 days. Apparently he has Celiac disease and has had it for so long that my 5'10", 190 lbs. son is malnourished and his thyroid is out of wack. And he can never again eat gluten without causing severe damage to his body and immune system. But, it was the painfully embarrassing psoriasis that he's had for a year that God used to finally push me past traditional medicine (that wasn't working) into the food testing. That poor kid is allergic to 24 foods, a few of which are killing him. Now we get to wait to see what God's going to do with that as I clear out all the junk "food" and learn to cook for real this time.

Its the every moment, every day miracles that keep me amazed and living in expectancy for what God will do next in and through me. And I haven't picked up my Bible in months. Who knew that all the rules of being a good Christian and keeping God pleased were bogus. He really does delight in me, even if I never ever ever did anything for Him ever again. He really does order the steps of my path and it really is His job to perfect me into the image of Christ. Who knew that the things He said He really meant. For all the big plans and purposes that I'm supposed to have as a Christian, its been the everyday little things that seem to be making the most impact in my life and the lives of those I meet. Maybe that's what Jesus was talking about when He mentioned mustard seeds. If all I ever have are mustard seeds, then its enough to change the world.

Brilliant & Witty

My niece has a blog. She's brilliant and witty and her blog is a pleasure to read. She uses really big, brilliant type words to get her message across and then you're out of there. Lots of little posts, full of lots of wonder, ponderings, silly things, smart things, funny things. But, they're short and fun to read; even when they have something profound to say. I, too, am brilliant and witty (just being honest here). It's a family trait passed down from all kinds of sides of the family. A kind of Comic Soup that we all swam in. Just remember you can't pick your family. So in rereading my Blog I wondered; "Geez, I don't sound Brilliant & Witty. When did I get so damn serious and heavy? Must be all the ice cream & beer So...I know I can do this. Now I just have to think of something to say....

Questions

My friend died this week. My tattoo-bedazzled, bald-headed, father-of-four, husband-of-beauty friend died. There's a website that was created early in his battle against a very rare cancer to give friends and family updates and opportunities to give money. My friend was poor in money, but rich in friends and beyond wealthy in faith. Now his widow is rich in medical bills. If these bills were money, she'd be quite well off. They put a picture of my friend on the website yesterday with the date of his birth and the date of his death. He looks so happy in this picture. It was taken last summer when the pain from the cancer was becoming overwhelming. He said the only time he didn't feel pain was when he was riding our Harley. So we let him borrow it for a trip to California and they took a photo and now he smiles back at me and I cry. I cry because I loved my friend and will miss him. I cry because that beautiful Harley that mostly just sits in the garage except for those glorious days in spring my husband will ride it out, became a place of healing for my friend, if only for a little while. Now, my friend is memories added to the other memories of the dead I know. It's amazing how our minds work. Those little triggers that pull an old moldy memory up as though it was fresh and newly formed. Sometimes its a smell. Have you ever smelled something and suddenly you're back in your grandmother's house and you can remember everything about it? My friend's death triggered those old moldies in me and along with them came a million questions. Some I know will not be answered until I see Jesus face to face. Others aren't questions that really need answers, I just can't help asking them. Some I would seriously like to know. Seriously. Like, where do the dead really go. People tell me that those who love Jesus are immediately in His presence. But I can't find scripture to back that up. There is something about "we shall not all sleep". Is that sleep what the dead do? Something else about "the dead in Christ will rise first". That would seem to mean they aren't risen yet. I've heard pastors, preachers and sermonetters proclaim that this is just the body going up to meet the spirit. But, again, where did they read that in the Bible? If the dead are sleeping, when they wake up will it only seem like a second ago that they breathed their last? What happens to the cremated? I mean what does the Bible say? I don't want the theology made up about this stuff, I want truth and in my experience the truth that we have isn't nearly all the truth there is. Is that why we make up the answers? Will I ever understand what percentage of us is not our bodies? When my Mom died, the shock of her sudden, profound 'gone-ness' was overwhelming. Here was the physical form, so familiar, suddenly empty and nothing of Beverly remained. I mean she left and this body was so amazingly not her. I can't describe it. Death isn't just so final, it's way more than that. I don't think there are words on this planet invented yet to describe death. Nothing that could even come close to preparing you for that moment when the last breath is exhaled, the heart just stops, and it's weird and awful and gut wrenching and life shattering. Everything from that moment at 3:11am on Friday, February 19, 1999 defines everything that has come after it. The death of my estranged Dad 11 days later and my Mom's mother (92) on my Mom's birthday (weird) joined to became a kind of giant ball of pain dropped with a sonic boom onto the path of my life that shattered everything and everything that comes beyond that point carries the definer "After Mom Died". How is my friend's wife sleeping without him? How does grief this deep and painful not kill you? How can a woman so devoted and in love make the decisions that need to be made to put her best friend's empty body to rest. Funeral arrangements are bizarre. You're in the most pain you've been in your life, your mind is reeling with the unbelief of it all, the shock makes your brain stick and some guy in a suit is guiding you to make very personal decisions for the most important person in your life who you just watched die and Funeral Guy has never even seen you before and never met your Mom. How does he know anything about her, or me, or what we need right now? It's all so mechanical and impersonal. It's cold and scary and feels like a train careening down the tracks and there's nothing you can do to stop it before it plunges off that cliff and the decisions you've made are permanent and unchanging. Like death. What happened to good old fashioned wakes, where we left the body of the disappeared family member on the kitchen table for a week and everyone came to bring casseroles and pie? You had time back then to get a little used to the idea. You had time to say your goodbyes and you buried this family member in the little family plot under the giant oak when you were good and ready to. What happened to those days? I understand burying someone in a hurry in the tropics, or where war is raging. I understand not having time for long goodbyes in a place where 30,000 children die every day from hunger. But, not here. Not in America. We have the time and the technology to let that loved one hang out in the Lay-Z-Boy for a good month before putting them in the ground. What's the rush? We don't like death in America. It's too real and it flies in the face of our youth obsessed culture that's all driven by the love of money and the love of beauty defined by some guy when movies were invented. I hope when I'm dying, very much older and very much grayer that I die in the hands of Hospice workers with my family surrounding me and singing something silly. Hospice workers are not afraid of death and I love that about them. They take what's inevitable for almost 100% of us and they give it dignity and they allow us to face the reality of this painful part of life. They walk you through the stages of dying and they encourage you to hang out for hours or days. And they talk openly about it all. Honestly. Real Gut wrenching honesty. My friend loved gut wrenching honesty. He'll be deeply, deeply missed.

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.