Funny, I don't feel like going for some profound "song-like" title to this blog. I just want to write. I've discovered some things in the past couple years of staggering change in my life. One of them is that I am a bonafide introvert. Meaning, I am refreshed and invigorated and able to better love and cherish those I love to be around when I am alone. I am alone now. The one I love to be around most is learning with me how to best express love, and she encouraged (insisted) that I go to Caribou to be alone.
Another thing I've learned is that certain activities of mine seem to be special avenues through which I can experience pure joy-filled worship. Not necessarily worship in a verbally expressed way, but worship in a, "This is pleasurable, and God designed it to be" kinda way. I'll skip the 'activity' that most makes me delight in God's love for us, and mention music and writing. I love playing the guitar, elementary though I may be in my technical skill and understanding. And I love to write. I LOVE to write! I want to write a long review of my moped trip still. I want to write questions that tumble around in my head. It's a good practice. It keeps my thoughts worthwhile. If I know I'm going to write about things, I may not spend a half hour at work thinking, "Boy, this mousepad is filthy... I wonder how you clean a mousepad? Oh look, there's a sunflower shell on the ground. I wish my chair was taller." When I wrote regularly I thought more clearly and critically. I allowed my thoughts to stretch beyond the initial question or observation and ponder it further. It takes time, though. And quiet.
If I were blogging consistently, what would I have written about in past months? Dandelions, daughters, the moon, desiring God, not desiring God, going to the moon, Louis Zamperini, not being dumb, landing on the moon, the USSS, my life behind bars, coming back from the moon, marriage, wallpaper, biking, Lone Survivor, John the Baptist, baby names, not going to the moon (Apollo 13), climbing half dome, not climbing Mt. Everest, the power of urushiol, Henry York Maccabee, Rowena, family "planning", guns, my grandpa, my other grandpa, my other grandpa, my other grandpa, cars, corporate worship, Saturday night church, annnnnd coffee in a mason jar with a straw. And Michael Oak, my former supervisor who is now my barista at Caribou, mopping under my feet.
So do I have an application point? A conclusion to my paper? I just want to write. I need to. I need to re-check my pulse. I need to think things worth writing, I need to do things worth writing. I need to read things worth writing. I need growth worth writing. This was begun as an accountability to myself that I would not waste my life, my singleness, and that God would, "Light these idle sticks of my life and let me burn up for thee. Consume my life, my God, for it is Thine. I desire not a long life but a full one, like you, Lord Jesus." We all have full lives. When it goes up in flame will the light and heat display the light of Christ in us, or will the flame be choked out by the soggy, self-centered priorities that we heaped upon the pyre of our lives?
I love that person that wanted me to come to Caribou. She's the wife of my youth, and God-permitting, the wife of my.. oldth. Time to go home to her.
Another thing I've learned is that certain activities of mine seem to be special avenues through which I can experience pure joy-filled worship. Not necessarily worship in a verbally expressed way, but worship in a, "This is pleasurable, and God designed it to be" kinda way. I'll skip the 'activity' that most makes me delight in God's love for us, and mention music and writing. I love playing the guitar, elementary though I may be in my technical skill and understanding. And I love to write. I LOVE to write! I want to write a long review of my moped trip still. I want to write questions that tumble around in my head. It's a good practice. It keeps my thoughts worthwhile. If I know I'm going to write about things, I may not spend a half hour at work thinking, "Boy, this mousepad is filthy... I wonder how you clean a mousepad? Oh look, there's a sunflower shell on the ground. I wish my chair was taller." When I wrote regularly I thought more clearly and critically. I allowed my thoughts to stretch beyond the initial question or observation and ponder it further. It takes time, though. And quiet.
If I were blogging consistently, what would I have written about in past months? Dandelions, daughters, the moon, desiring God, not desiring God, going to the moon, Louis Zamperini, not being dumb, landing on the moon, the USSS, my life behind bars, coming back from the moon, marriage, wallpaper, biking, Lone Survivor, John the Baptist, baby names, not going to the moon (Apollo 13), climbing half dome, not climbing Mt. Everest, the power of urushiol, Henry York Maccabee, Rowena, family "planning", guns, my grandpa, my other grandpa, my other grandpa, my other grandpa, cars, corporate worship, Saturday night church, annnnnd coffee in a mason jar with a straw. And Michael Oak, my former supervisor who is now my barista at Caribou, mopping under my feet.
So do I have an application point? A conclusion to my paper? I just want to write. I need to. I need to re-check my pulse. I need to think things worth writing, I need to do things worth writing. I need to read things worth writing. I need growth worth writing. This was begun as an accountability to myself that I would not waste my life, my singleness, and that God would, "Light these idle sticks of my life and let me burn up for thee. Consume my life, my God, for it is Thine. I desire not a long life but a full one, like you, Lord Jesus." We all have full lives. When it goes up in flame will the light and heat display the light of Christ in us, or will the flame be choked out by the soggy, self-centered priorities that we heaped upon the pyre of our lives?
I love that person that wanted me to come to Caribou. She's the wife of my youth, and God-permitting, the wife of my.. oldth. Time to go home to her.
