Dusty dreams

I started writing a book today – and by started I mean I opened up a Word document, wrote a few measly words, sat there for a while staring at them, and then eventually named it and saved it deep in my computer where no one will find it.

Yes, I named it. Don’t ask me what I named it, because I won’t tell you. It’ll probably change – in fact, I’m certain it will. But I named it because names matter. Names turn a nothing into a something and force you to pay attention to it – and this book would probably remain a nothing if I kept it tucked away on the dusty “maybe someday” shelf of my heart without a name. So today I pulled it off the shelf, brushed off the cobwebs, and said, “Hi, lifelong dream! Let’s get a move on, shall we?”

I don’t know what this book is going to be about exactly. That’s generally how it goes when I sit down to write. My best thoughts and ideas evolve as I go. I’m often surprised by my own words when I read them later.

This scares me a little bit – not only because it feels ambiguous and vague, but because it feels increasingly scary to try and insert your voice into the conversation that is happening in this world. The conversation feels like a barreling freight train that you’re either going to miss or get crushed by if you’re not loud enough, smart enough, articulate enough, or poignant enough. With the technology available now, it seems like everyone has a voice of sorts – or at least pretends to have a voice by hopping on someone else’s bandwagon. You have to have a cause, a solution, a good headline, a well-designed blog, or a five-point argument with a thesis in order to have a voice.

Or at least that’s what it feels like.

And I’m afraid. I’m afraid because I often feel the opposite of things like ‘smart’ or ‘articulate.’ I’m afraid because – while therapeutic and life-giving – writing can be a long and arduous process for me. It’s easy enough to post here every once in a while, in this small, low-risk corner of the internet that not many people stumble across. But writing a book? That takes guts, and a whole heck of a lot of time that you don’t know will necessarily pay off in the way that every closet writer secretly dreams it will.

But I’m pulling this dream off the shelf because I like words and I think they’re transformative – both for the reader and the writer. I’m pulling it off the shelf because I’ve been told that people enjoy hearing what I have to say. I’m pulling it off the shelf because “my story is important not because it is mine, God knows, but because if I tell it anything like right, the chances are you will recognize that in many ways it is also yours…it is precisely through these stories in all their particularity, as I have long believed and often said, that God makes himself known to each of us more powerfully and personally.” (Frederick Buechner and I regularly finish each others’ sentences…it’s NBD.)

So – let’s get a move on and see where this goes, shall we?

Spiderwebs & waterfalls

Time and space are funny things – so broad and vague and forgettable most of the time, racing by us at full speed without leaving any sort of permanent impression.  Then, every once in a while, life is kind enough to slow down just long enough for us to grasp onto something – a conversation, an image, a feeling, an understanding – some wisp of time and space that we’re able to rescue from the whirlwind of it all and tuck deep down inside of ourselves before it’s lost again.

It was almost a year ago that I hopped on a plane and took a whirlwind of a trip that I didn’t technically have the time, money, or courage for, but somehow managed to scrounge up anyway.  I’m so thankful that I did, and equally thankful that I captured a few of those “wisps” here before I lost them.

I was reminded of one of those moments this past weekend as I was taking a morning walk through the woods.  It was one of those delicious days where it felt like spring but was actually still winter, and one of those walks where I couldn’t help but move slowly, stopping every few minutes to pause and listen to the world creaking and chirping around me.

But amidst all the sights and sounds, it was the spiderwebs glistening in the trees that held my attention.  They brought me back to a wisp of time and space in Zambia a year ago that I still think about often.

Toward the end of our trip, we got to spend a day playing tourists at Victoria Falls, one of the largest (if not the largest) waterfalls in the world.  After hiking through an army of baboons that lined the trail to our destination, we took a front row seat to soak in the beauty.

But in that seemingly perfect moment, sitting before one of the Seven Natural Wonders of the World, I suddenly felt overwhelmed, weary of traveling, inexplicably anxious about going back home, and shaky for no apparent reason.  This rush of feelings caught me off-guard, and proceeded to send me down a nasty spiral, where I found myself very afraid all of the sudden, having trouble breathing, and angry that I couldn’t snap out of my funk for long enough to enjoy the view.  It was one of a very small handful of times in my life where I can truly say that I felt like I was under attack – an eerie feeling, to say the least.

I remember sitting there helplessly, trying to focus on taking deep breaths and observing a fat spider in the tree next to me.  The spider was planted in the middle of a perfectly spun web, quivering from the force of the falls and barely holding on through the blast of mist that surrounded us.

In a sharp contrast to the coldness that had surprised me only minutes earlier like an ice cube down the back of my shirt, the image of that spiderweb glistening in a collision of water droplets and sunlight washed over me like a warm bath.

I always find it a holy experience to be able to say “me too, me too!” – even if only to a spider.  There’s something about knowing that someone else has been shaken up and drenched and slammed just like you have that makes your situation seem a little more “okay.”  It’s an eternal truth that calls to the deepest part of our hearts when we witness someone else’s glistening collision of chaos and light, calling us to hold on and turn our faces toward the water so that another might see and find relief in saying, “me too, me too!”

“Deep calls to deep in the roar of your waterfalls; all your waves and breakers have swept over me.”

PSALM 42:7

Left to right, top to bottom, one page to the next

I’m all about formulas, numbers, and checklists.  If there’s any way to make “you-name-it” into something calculable, I’ll probably be the first to try.  I get a rush out of setting goals, checking off to-do lists, hitting deadlines, and following well-thought-out plans.

For example, this time last year I vowed to floss my teeth more.  Truth be told, I hate flossing.  It makes my gums bleed, and I always feel like I’m disappointing my dentist by either A) confessing that I haven’t been flossing, or B) smiling and nodding in agreement as he reiterates how important flossing is, and thus tricking him into thinking that I actually have been flossing.  It’s a lose-lose situation every time.

So, exactly 365 days ago, I decided that 2013 was going to be the year I started flossing.  Looking back, I didn’t do half bad.  While I didn’t succeed every day, I definitely pulled the floss out of the bathroom cabinet more than two or three times during the year like I normally do.

Fast forward to August when I proudly marched into the dentist’s office, conscience free and clear, ready to announce my success, and was instead awarded my very first cavity.  “Keep flossing, kid,” the dentist said, as he gave me a heartless slap on the back and turned me over to the receptionist to schedule my filling of shame.

On the opposite end of the spectrum, one of the most unplanned growing experiences I had this year was working my way through this Bible.  When I opened it for the first time after it was given to me last spring, I was surprised to find that it had no chapters, no verses, and it read like a single-column book – kind of unnerving at first, since the lack of reference often leaves you having no idea where you’re at.  Nevertheless, I started reading.  And instead of forcing myself through whatever prescribed, gum-bleeding amount felt holy enough for that day, I simply moved from left to right, from top to bottom, from one page to the next.  And what I found were letters in their fullness, stories in context, and a great narrative unbound by the numbers we attach to the traditional Bible reading plans we all so diligently try to follow.

Needless to say, I’ve learned a lot about formulas, numbers, and checklists recently – handy when we use them well, but not always dependable, and destructive when we rely on them as a life-source.  On the brink of this new year, as I am tempted to over-calculate and over-schedule in order to do enough, accomplish enough, and be enough, I am reminded of the importance of the story, the beauty in living life from left to right, from top to bottom, from one page to the next.

As 2013 slips away and 2014 graces our current page, may we be challenged to quit plucking single experiences out of context and either clinging to them as our identity or dismissing them as irrelevant to the story.  May we resist the temptation to cling to control, lean into the natural ebb and flow of the narrative, and give thanks for seasons past, present, and future.

Old stories, new stories

I found this post by Shauna Niequist four or five days ago, and haven’t been able to stop thinking about it since.  In her post, she talks about how she often finds herself telling an old story of who she is, as opposed to living a newer, truer story:

“There are people and situations that take us back to old, old stories, and even though we’re moms now, not children, or even though we’re business owners now, not adolescents, we find ourselves acting out stories that haven’t been true for a long time, or stories that were never true to begin with.”

Yes, yes, yes.  I can point to a number of old, irrelevant, and misleading stories that I often find creeping back into my life and taking up space.

One moment I find myself confident, pulled together, and self-aware, and the next moment I find myself embarrassed to say “I love you”, shy to pray at the dinner table, swinging verbal punches at my sister, comparing myself to others, hesitant to make decisions, afraid to try new things – all old stories that have been proven untrue, or have expired as I have matured.

And so, like Shauna, I want to write a new story.  This story says that I can express emotion and tell people how I feel, especially when it involves my relationship with Christ.  It says that my sister and I have both grown up a lot and know how to be friends.  It says that I am enough the way I am, and that I can live boldly and peacefully without being afraid that I’ll offend someone or fail at something.

This is the story I am stepping into.  May we all be on the lookout for the old stories that keep trying to creep back in, and be quick to let Christ replace them with new truths and strengthened identity.

The cat’s pajamas

A position I recently applied for required a 500 word essay.  The prompt: “address an event that happened in your childhood that shaped how you define yourself today.”  I had so much fun writing it, that I thought I’d share!  Love you, Dad.

As I have grown as a writer over the years, I’ve come to find that my writing tends to revolve more around “character” than “plot”.  I have an incurable fascination with people.  I love observing their quirks, idiosyncrasies, tendencies, and interactions with the world around them.  In turn, I can’t help but sneakily and “accidentally” interpret the prompt to address an event that happened in my childhood as an opportunity to highlight an individual who was very much an event himself – turning every day of my childhood into a grand party.

Enter, the one and only, Brent Martin – the epitome of eccentricity, creativity, and outside-the-box thinking – otherwise known as “Dad.”

My dad has the uncanny ability to take a situation or circumstance that is seemingly ordinary and turn it into an epic adventure.  Now, I realize that most daughters think their daddy is the cat’s pajamas, but I would argue that I have more reason to think so than most.

One of my favorite moments with my dad took place when I was in elementary school, in the backyard of the fixer-upper my family had just moved into.  It was a fairly typical backyard – grass, a few scraggly trees, a couple of old stumps – but while the rest of us saw the yard for its reality, my dad saw it for its possibility.

Thus began the crazy project that about half of my tiny hometown now knows as “The Rabbit Tunnel.”  With the help of my sister and me, my dad constructed a ten-foot, underground tunnel, connecting the two dead stumps we had hollowed out – the perfect runway for a couple of rabbits, don’t you think?  So, while other families kept their bunnies in normal wire cages from pet stores, we kept ours in a homemade underground tunnel with “rabbit lookout points” carved out of two rotten tree stumps.

Then there was the time when he loaded up the ol’ Volkswagen Vanagon and drove us two hours in the middle of the night, just for an Original Glazed at our favorite doughnut shop.  Or the time when he took our giant Golden Retriever rafting down the Yakima River, and ended up straddling the hairy beast on a tiny backup inner tube most of the way because the raft popped.

The levity, absurdity, and imagination my dad has brought to my growing-up experience has shaped me in life altering ways.  I truly believe that our potential to live creatively, wildly, and fully as human beings is dependent upon the way we view the world around us.  On one hand, my dad could have chosen to see two dead stumps, a doughnut shop that was out of our reach, and an overweight dog that would never make it on such a cheaply made raft.  Instead, he chooses each day to see life as a grand party, an epic adventure, and a story to be told – paving the way for the rest of us to believe the same.

The middle

“You don’t know what the story is about when you are in the middle of it.  You think you do, but you don’t.  You make up all kinds of possible story lines: this one is about growing up.  Or this is about living without fear.  You can guess all you want, but you don’t know.  All you can do is keep walking.

There is nothing worse than the middle.  At the beginning, you have a little arrogance, loads of buoyancy.  The journey, whatever it is, looks beautiful and bright, and you are filled with resolve and silver strength, sure that whatever the future holds, you will face it with optimism and chutzpah.  It’s like the first day of school, and you’re wearing the outfit you laid out last night, backpack full of perfectly sharpened yellow pencils.

And the end is beautiful.  You are wiser, better, deeper.  You know things you didn’t previously know, you’ve shed things you previously clung to.  The end is revelation, resolution, a soft place to land.

But, oh, the middle.  I hate the middle.  The middle is the fog, the exhaustion, the loneliness, the daily battle against despair and the nagging fear that tomorrow will be just like today, only you’ll be wearier and less able to defend yourself against it.  The middle is the lonely place, when you can’t find words to say how deeply empty you feel, when you try to connect but you feel like thick glass is separating you from the rest of the world, isolating and deadening everything.”

SHAUNA NIEQUIST

Common thread

A few weekends ago, Cascades put on a retreat for 200+ high school students from all across the Pacific Northwest.  The weeks since then have been swallowed up by the rest of life, and I’ve been searching for a few spare minutes to share about it here – mostly for my sake, to preserve one of my favorite moments from the weekend in writing.

As we often do at retreats or summer camps, we split up by gender one evening for a “guys night” and a “girls night.”  I was obviously involved in the latter.  Details aside, four of my good friends (who are also on staff) and I wrote and performed (although I hate to use that word, because our intention was far from a performance) a series of monologues, based on our personal testimonies as broken women being made new in Christ.  Between the five of us, we spanned the issues teenage girls tend to face fairly evenly, so each of us took on a “persona,” you might say, and shared regarding that specific aspect of our testimony.

We sat on stools holding our journals in front of 100 young women and told of our struggles with perfection, doubt, self-worth, faith, control, relationships, love, family, friends, image, anxiety, and a host of other messy, heavy issues.  Some of us got tears in our eyes, some of our voices caught in our throats, and some of us nervously tapped our feet or bounced our knees while we were speaking.

It was beautiful.

Not beautiful in a polished, pulled-together kind of way (although it did end up coming off better than we expected), but beautiful in a vulnerable, raw, earthy, heartfelt kind of way.  Some of us had never shared about certain parts of our lives before – let alone with 100 people – and all of a sudden we were offering up our broken stories for everyone to hear, enter into, and hopefully resonate with.

There is a powerful, inexplicable, overwhelming beauty that comes with storytelling.  I don’t know how many times I’ve turned to formulas, cookie-cutter prayers, and “right answers” in my faith journey – but I’ve come to realize that they don’t work.  Not on their own, anyway.  Certainly there is truth to all the things we grow up hearing in Sunday school and find ourselves repeating back like little Christian robots throughout the entirety of our lives – but we’re missing the point.  We’re taking the conclusion away from the story.

“Dear Jesus, please come into my heart and forgive me of my sins.  Amen.”

Good.  Correct.  Right.  But why?  What is the significance of such a cliché if we isolate it, separating it from the greater narrative of a broken world redeemed?  I believe that we must return to the art of storytelling, for that is where the gospel is proclaimed.

The gospel is proclaimed when we share our experiences with one another, when we offer up the unattractive parts of our lives that we would rather keep hidden away in the musty, dark basements of our hearts for no one to see, when we listen and find ourselves asking, “You too?”  Light shines in the darkness when we realize that we are not alone, when we find hope in someone else’s testimony, when we start to see how our lives are all interconnected through the common thread of a redemptive God who is actively weaving our broken pieces together into something beautiful.

God loves stories.  He’s all about the narrative.  Let’s love stories and be all about the narrative, too.

“Logan-isms”

I’ve been spending a lot of time with a 5-year-old named Logan lately – tiring, but hilarious for the most part.  Here are some of the highlights, or as I like to call them, “Logan-isms.”

LOGAN-ISM #1

ME:  “Let’s play a game.  Hide-and-seek, maybe?”

LOGAN:  “Oh, oh!  I know what we should play!  Everyone start dancing.  As soon as you fall over, you turn into a toilet.  But after you fall four times you turn into Captain Underpants.  It’s my FAVORITE game.  Oh, and can I handcuff you?”

ME:  “Sure?”

LOGAN-ISM #2

ME:  “Logan, what’s your favorite vegetable?”

LOGAN:  “Granola.”

ME:  “Granola?  That’s not a vegetable!”

LOGAN:  “Well, yeah, I know that!  I meant the healthy part.  Granola is healthy.  Like vegetables.”

LOGAN-ISM #3

ME:  “Logan, what do you want to be when you grow up?”

LOGAN:  “A spy.”

ME:  “Wow!  That’s awesome!  You’ll be a good spy.”

LOGAN:  “What do you want to be?”

ME:  “Well, I’m still trying to figure that out.  Maybe you can help me decide.”

(Logan pauses, looks out the car window, and points to the 7-11 we’re passing.)  

LOGAN:  “You should work there.  Or you could be a housemaid.”

 LOGAN-ISM #4

(Logan comes wandering down the stairs after he’s been in bed for about an hour.)

ME:  “What’s up, Logan?  Having trouble sleeping?”

(Logan sticks his finger in his mouth and looks at me sheepishly.)

LOGAN:  “I have to go number two.”

ME:  “Oh, okay.  Well, let me know if you need anything.”

LOGAN:  “That means poop, you know.  Number two means poop.”

ME:  “Yeah.”

(Logan goes back upstairs.)

LOGAN-ISM #5

LOGAN:  “How old are you?”

ME:  “How old do you think I am?  Take a guess.”

LOGAN:  “I don’t know.  Do you have a boyfriend?

ME:  “Well, uh…”

LOGAN:  “That’s what I thought.  You’re WAY too old to have a boyfriend.”

I don’t change much…

Digging through some old papers this morning, I found a story I wrote and illustrated for fun in the third grade.  After reading through it, I am acutely aware that I haven’t changed much in the last twelve years.  This is my nine year-old brain in its purest form, so enjoy the awkward typos.  Without further adieu, I present…

Hi!  I’m Addie.  First before I get into the good stuff I would like to tell a little bit about myself.  First of all, I’m nine years old.  I have a family of six (including my dog.)  My family includes my mom and dad, my big brother Brent, my little sister Emily and of course someone I would never forget, Smudge my dog.  Oh I forgot, me!  Even though six isn’t a very big number sometimes my house can get a little wild.  What am I saying!  It gets really wiled.  This morning for example, was pretty normal and wild.  It was a Thursday morning and this is what it sounded like.

“Mom I can’t find my homework!”  “Smudge chewed up my tooth brush!”  “Addie used up all the warm water how do I take a shower now?”

“SILENCE!” my mom yelled.  “Okay, now Emily skip the shower.  Brent I bought you a new tooth brush yesterday and it’s in the drawer in the bathroom.  Addie, your homework is on the coffe table.”

Okay now you know what my family’s like.  Now I will tell you about other people.  My teacher, Mr. Bruce, isn’t my favorite teacher in the world, but he’s okay.  One thing I LOVE about him is that every time there is a holiday or a kid’s birthday he brings chocolate cake, chocolate milk, and Hershey’s chocolate kisses.  He’s a Chocolate nut.  I am too.  Mrs. Henry, the lady at the grocery store is great.  She always talks to me after school when I’m walking home.  She’s the best.  My friend Jamie is my best friend.  Jamie is funny.  He always is telling jokes.  He is great.  Well, that’s about all but I think I’ll tell you about when I got Smudge.  It all started when I was at Jamie’s house and he showed me his new cocker spaniel puppy.  Her name was Shelby.  She was so cute.  While I was looking at her I decided I wanted a dog.  I asked my parents and they said they’d talk about it.  They went into their room and talked for what seemed to be an hour.  They came out and said I could have one if I showed them I’m responsible enough to have one.  So guess what I did?

I went to the vet’s office on every Saturday and Sunday and helped out.  The first day was the best because I got to play with Shelby!  I saw Jamie, too.  While we played with Shelby I asked Jamie how he got his dog.  He said by walking dogs!  I could have a dog walking business!  Right after I left I went to all of the neighbor’s houses and asked if they wanted me to walk their dogs.  That very day I got to walk six dogs!  One day on a Tuesday at dinner my mom and dad were smiling.

“What?” I said.  My mom cleared her throat.

“We decided you could get a dog since you have been so responsible.”

“Yes !” I shouted.  “Only one thing, my mom said.

What?” I asked.

“You have to earn the money to buy it”, they said.

“I do ?” I squeaked in a tiny voice.

“Yup my dad said.

” I know!  I could have a carnival,” I said.

” That’s fine with me,” my mom said.

” Me too,” My dad said.  The next day I spent all afternoon making posters.  They looked like this:

Carnival!
908 W. Fremont Ave.
Selah, WA 98942
1.00 Per kid 2.00 Per Parent
All week from 12:00-5:00
Fun! Fun! Fun!

My dad drove me all over town to put up posters.  The next day I could not believe it.  30 people showed up!  The night before Brent had helped me set up a popcorn stand, a beanbag toss, a hairbraiding stand, a go fishing booth, and a pie eating context.  My mom made the popcorn and the pies.  The second day was a big success too.  Shelby and Jamie came.  I let Shelby in free.  On the 3rd day it was not fun at all.  Okay, are you ready for this?  Well, anyway I woke up and went downstairs to breakfast and guess what happened?  My whole family stared at me like I was an orange frog with purple warts.

“AAAAHHH!  She’s contagious!” Emily screamed.  That’s what 6 year olds do, you know.

“Back to bed, young lady,” my mom said.

“Why?” I asked.

“Because you have red spots all OVER your face and you know what that means,” Brent said.

“But today’s the carnival.”  I moaned.

“Don’t worry, Addie,” Emily said.  “We’ll take over.”  That was a big problem.  I was supposed to earn the money and my family was doing it for me.  I thought of another problem.  Who would run the 5th booth?  My mom was doing the hairbraiding booth, my dad the pie-eating contest, Brent the Go Fishing booth, and Emily the beanbag toss.  Who would run the popcorn stand?  Maybe Jamie could.  I called Jamie.  It was another problem.  Jamie had basketball practice.  Who else could do it?  I got a great idea!  Maybe Grandpa Miller could!  He’s my Grandpa.  I called him.  He said he could!  He lived right down the street so it only took 5 minutes to get to our house.  When he got there he came to my room and said,

“How are you feeling? “

“Lousy,” I said.  He set up the TV and put in my absolute favorite movie,

“Where the Red Fern Grows.”  I watched it, then went to sleep.  When I woke up I felt really itchy.  My mom came up and said

“The carnival’s over.  How are you feeling?”

“ITCHY!” I said.  “How about a bath?” she asked.

” I guess,” I said.  When I got out of my bath my mom asked

“How are you?”

“My head hurts,” I groaned.

” I made some chicken noodle soup,” she said cheerfully.

“Would you like some?”  I wasn’t very hungry but I just couldn’t turn down some chicken noodle soup.  (My mom makes the best!)

“Sure.” I replied glumly.

It went on like this for the next few days.  Actually, the next few weeks.  The carnival was over and I counted the money we earned.  $123.17  Wow!  That was a lot of money.  I wasn’t sure if there was even a puppy to buy with it.  When I went to bed I had a feeling something special was about to happen.  In the morning I woke up to hear a yipping sound.  I opened my eyes and found a small white puppy with black paws, black ears, And black smudges all over him sitting on my bed.

“Merry Christmas!” My family shouted.

“What?” I said.

“It’s Christmas.” Emily said.  I had been so busy thinking about my chicken pox that I had forgotten about Christmas.  It was here.

” Is this puppy for me”? , I asked.

” Yup,” Said Brent.

What are you going to do with your money?,” asked Emily.

” I am going to split it up evenly with you guys,” said Addie.  You worked so hard at the carnival that you each deserve some.

“What are you goin to call the puppy?,” asked my dad.  I looked at the chubby black and white. Puppy.

“Smudge”, I said.

“Cool!”, said Brent.

“Hurry, Addie.  Presents are down stairs.” Said Emily.

“Emily,” I said, “The best present I’ve got is having a family like you guys.”

“Really?, said Emily.

“Really,” I said.”  That’s the story of how I got Smudge.

The candlelit “in-between”

Recently, life has dropped me in the middle of one of those awkward, in-between times.  Not my favorite, to be honest.  I’ve found that I am happier and more content when I am busy, purposeful, and needed by other people.  Having just come off of a full year and a rich summer, I find myself going a little crazy.  Which is crazy in itself, considering the fact that I’ve been craving this kind of rest for a long time – time to take naps, time to take leisurely walks, time to sit on the staircase with my friends and laugh for hours on end, time to read a book by candlelight until the wick has burned all the way down, time to linger over my meals, time to bake, time to run, and time to process the whirlwind of the last few months.

And yet, I find myself restless and discontent.  I find myself wishing I were in another place, another time, another season.  I find myself waiting for the next “thing.”  I find myself disregarding this stretch as a part of God’s greater story – as if it were merely the empty page you find in between the end of one chapter and the start of a next.  A filler, if you will.

But despite the poor attitude that dominates me most of the time, I strive to keep reminding myself of the greater truth.  The truth that boasts of God’s purpose in the awkward, in-between times, when we’re selfishly wishing the clock would tick faster and the candle would burn down so that we could start a new one.

Psalm 27:13-14 proclaims, “I remain confident of this: I will see the goodness of the LORD in the land of the living.  Wait for the LORD; be strong and take heart and wait for the LORD.”

We are commanded to wait for the LORD – not to pace back and forth, twiddling our thumbs anxiously until the next season of so-called “purpose” rolls around.  To wait, does not solely mean to anticipate, but also to remain steadfast.  This time of rest I am currently in the midst of – it is the land of the living.  And it is good.