It took me awhile to understand what Jesus was talking about because it took me awhile to understand his kingdom really is upside down from this world. "Really?" I started to think, "You want me to pursue a direction exactly opposite from where they pointed me in school, in work, even in church?" Everything around me said, "Go higher! Get larger! Make a name for yourself." When I was eighteen, I thought my life would be meaningless if I didn't end up famous. But misgiving nagged me; even the messages in church sometimes didn't jive with his words, and I wanted to follow his words. It took me so long to believe Jesus really was leading me down, to diminishing, to even disappearing. His voice, so quiet among the voices screaming, "That's the way to death!", said, "Yes, but the only way to life."
It takes a lot of faith to trust that quiet voice and follow it down to the grave (and I can't without his help): to stand silent before my accusers instead of defending myself; to not fight for my rights, to even lay them down; to do more than my share of the work without bitterness; to do humbling - even degrading - acts of service without recognition or thanks; to receive insults and choose out of love to go back for more. I thought, "Can this really be the way?" But then he helped me try it, and I knew it was, because I felt the hint of a brand new kind of joy; I sensed the sprouting of a living seed I didn't know was in me. I know if he helps me continue, and I know he will, I will see the growth of a glory I could never have imagined.
Saturday, June 18, 2011
Friday, June 17, 2011
Dependence
Holy, holy, holy God,
Be glorified in these hands,
In this self-serving life
Trying to serve you;
I only scratch a dent
In paint that needs to come off,
Not even a fleck.
But I'm new to knowing what you see in
Little me, with my unwashed hair in a pony-tail all week,
With my smile and the lines that don't go away when it's gone,
With my love for ice cream, with my dandruff,
With the way I down-dressed my husband in front of his sister,
With my Gatling gun laugh that does delight you so,
With my pensive looks and love of a good comedian,
With my hands wiping, changing, dressing, bathing, buttoning, brushing, patting,
With my twisted vessel for loving (it never comes out straight,
But sometimes when I'm unaware
And my busy hands stay out of it,
The love that fills my heart makes its way
Where I meant it to go);
I'm new to drooping all my weight
Onto your arms,
My lamb-head against your chest
Where you carry me.
I revel in it,
Into myself, I suppose,
But in awe of you,
That you would bear me thus;
I always knew you could
But now I know you want to.
Now I see
It doesn't put you out
To do what you made me to need.
Be glorified in these hands,
In this self-serving life
Trying to serve you;
I only scratch a dent
In paint that needs to come off,
Not even a fleck.
But I'm new to knowing what you see in
Little me, with my unwashed hair in a pony-tail all week,
With my smile and the lines that don't go away when it's gone,
With my love for ice cream, with my dandruff,
With the way I down-dressed my husband in front of his sister,
With my Gatling gun laugh that does delight you so,
With my pensive looks and love of a good comedian,
With my hands wiping, changing, dressing, bathing, buttoning, brushing, patting,
With my twisted vessel for loving (it never comes out straight,
But sometimes when I'm unaware
And my busy hands stay out of it,
The love that fills my heart makes its way
Where I meant it to go);
I'm new to drooping all my weight
Onto your arms,
My lamb-head against your chest
Where you carry me.
I revel in it,
Into myself, I suppose,
But in awe of you,
That you would bear me thus;
I always knew you could
But now I know you want to.
Now I see
It doesn't put you out
To do what you made me to need.
Monday, June 13, 2011
Someone Wants to Hear Me Sing
Who am I kidding? I'm wretched. I'm lonely. I'm in need. No one sees what I am doing. The ones I love most are not satisfied with me. The love I am grasping for like a hungry infant is not forthcoming. I'm empty. I hunger. I want.
We finished swim lessons today. Finally the summer stretches out lazily before me like a river. I have nothing to do but visit the beach and my relatives in Kentucky, and then in August to start rehearsal for a play (more on that later!) I'll hit these marks and in between we will get up each morning with a single daily goal - to log hours in the pool, punctuated by meals and nap-times. From conveying my children to swim lessons and back every day for a month, I am spent. I'm so glad I don't have anywhere to be tomorrow. Maybe now I'll clean my house.
Maybe I won't.
But I aspire to. I aspire to too many things, self-improvements: better housekeeping, better parenting, better communion with nature, better finances, better responses, better loving. I do well, but I could do better. Every day this month, I cared for my children. I fed them three meals a day, kept them safe, and sometimes did their laundry. I worked on teaching them to clean up after themselves and to obey their mother and to stop screaming at each other. I made it possible for them to learn how to swim. I also taught Sunday school and saved hundreds of dollars with coupons and threw a birthday party. That's a lot, isn't it? Even just keeping the children safe is worth more than all the rest combined. I'd like to call it enough. But to satisfy every expectation, I know it's not. There is still space for someone to find it lacking.
"Mommy, keep singing!"
I was singing along with the radio in the car this morning. I knew almost all the words.
"You are Lord of Lords,
You are King of Kings,
You are Mighty God,
Lord of everything.
You're Emmanuel
You're the Great I Am
You're my Prince of Peace
Who is the Lamb.
You're my saving God
You're my saving grace.
You will reign forever.
You're the Ancient of Days.
You're the Alpha, Omega,
Beginning and End.
You're my savior, Messiah,
Redeemer, and Friend.
You're my Prince of Peace
And I will live my life for you."
Whenever I got quiet, my two-year-0ld told me to keep singing, a touching request. So I sang louder, and with feeling. She was right - I needed to keep singing that, over and over. And I think I needed someone to want to hear me sing, and I don't think she was the only one who did.
Now, late in the day, as I type this, over and over a sweet baby is relentlessly climbing my back. Detritus litters the floor. I fear, in the end, I may never be much more than I am now. I'm too much of a drama queen. I'm too passive aggressive. I'm too exacting (of myself mostly.) I'm too craving.
I have lately been contemplating - at times obsessively - the Roman Catholic church. Is it the true Church? Am I going to end up in it? I hear of it being our Holy Mother. I don't know if that description includes every branch of Christ's Body, the low along with the high. All I know is I want to run into her arms. Where else can I nurse and be satisfied at those comforting breasts? I mean, is God Himself equipped with those? I don't know how to imagine it. I just know it's what I need.
We finished swim lessons today. Finally the summer stretches out lazily before me like a river. I have nothing to do but visit the beach and my relatives in Kentucky, and then in August to start rehearsal for a play (more on that later!) I'll hit these marks and in between we will get up each morning with a single daily goal - to log hours in the pool, punctuated by meals and nap-times. From conveying my children to swim lessons and back every day for a month, I am spent. I'm so glad I don't have anywhere to be tomorrow. Maybe now I'll clean my house.
Maybe I won't.
But I aspire to. I aspire to too many things, self-improvements: better housekeeping, better parenting, better communion with nature, better finances, better responses, better loving. I do well, but I could do better. Every day this month, I cared for my children. I fed them three meals a day, kept them safe, and sometimes did their laundry. I worked on teaching them to clean up after themselves and to obey their mother and to stop screaming at each other. I made it possible for them to learn how to swim. I also taught Sunday school and saved hundreds of dollars with coupons and threw a birthday party. That's a lot, isn't it? Even just keeping the children safe is worth more than all the rest combined. I'd like to call it enough. But to satisfy every expectation, I know it's not. There is still space for someone to find it lacking.
"Mommy, keep singing!"
I was singing along with the radio in the car this morning. I knew almost all the words.
"You are Lord of Lords,
You are King of Kings,
You are Mighty God,
Lord of everything.
You're Emmanuel
You're the Great I Am
You're my Prince of Peace
Who is the Lamb.
You're my saving God
You're my saving grace.
You will reign forever.
You're the Ancient of Days.
You're the Alpha, Omega,
Beginning and End.
You're my savior, Messiah,
Redeemer, and Friend.
You're my Prince of Peace
And I will live my life for you."
Whenever I got quiet, my two-year-0ld told me to keep singing, a touching request. So I sang louder, and with feeling. She was right - I needed to keep singing that, over and over. And I think I needed someone to want to hear me sing, and I don't think she was the only one who did.
Now, late in the day, as I type this, over and over a sweet baby is relentlessly climbing my back. Detritus litters the floor. I fear, in the end, I may never be much more than I am now. I'm too much of a drama queen. I'm too passive aggressive. I'm too exacting (of myself mostly.) I'm too craving.
I have lately been contemplating - at times obsessively - the Roman Catholic church. Is it the true Church? Am I going to end up in it? I hear of it being our Holy Mother. I don't know if that description includes every branch of Christ's Body, the low along with the high. All I know is I want to run into her arms. Where else can I nurse and be satisfied at those comforting breasts? I mean, is God Himself equipped with those? I don't know how to imagine it. I just know it's what I need.
Friday, June 3, 2011
Lord, Have Mercy. Christ, Have Mercy. Lord, Have Mercy.
And so it goes. And so it goes.
I am sure Fernando Ortega didn't know he was singing for me when he sat down to play Kyrie Eleison for the cameras in his home in New Mexico.
I put the kids to bed and now I'm sitting on the leather sofa, wine in hand. I usually don't drink alone, but Shep is out of town for the night, and so I've digressed, not only from my pious perch of eliminating sugar from my diet - ten peppermint wrappers (what a pitiful binge - I wasn't prepared) and a twice-emptied ice cream bowl litter my t.v. tray - but also down into a glass of wine - only one, but just one takes the edge off.
I'm blowing off steam. I want to go wild. I've been juggling all day, no, all week. Three kids and an armload of towels, to the Y and back every morning. Three wet kids, learning to swim - with success, so at least it's worth the effort. (One does the crawl. One does the float. One does the freestyle - meaning for now she is happy with what she knows and wants to be left alone.) Three stretching, straining, flailing, calling, weeping, whining, shouting, laughing, bossing, screaming, chattering, prattling, yammering, yattering, yapping, jawing, babbling, jabbering, bucking, braying kids. To breakfast, to make beds, to the potty, to the car, to the locker room, to the potty, to the pool, to the potty, to the pool, to the potty, to the car, to the store, to the car, to the house, to the nap, nap, nap, not-long-enough nap, to the grouchy - I mean, the evening - hours, to dinner, to bath if it's that day of the month, to bed, to bed, to bed, to bed. And then the baby is teething, so bedtime is done three times. Three times' the charm.
I want to go wild.
I feel better when I am measured and even - no sugar, bed by ten (or eleven...thirty), plenty of sleep, then hitting my marks: breakfast by eight, out the door by 9:30, nap by 2:30 - three at the latest - dinner by six, bath (I tried to add that one in there as a regular thing - ha!) by seven, bed by eight, eight, eight, NO SUGAR, BED BY TEN! But then a day comes when I've got to blow off steam, and I'm eating...whatever I can find...with the internet on my lap, wasting time down rabbit trails.
I googled how to grow great-tasting cucumbers. After half a glass of wine, that innocent query almost turned me aside into dangerous waters, but I stayed my course and found out that size makes the biggest difference in taste of cucumbers grown in the garden - really! (Irrigation and soil acidity are also important factors.)
I by-passed Facebook somehow, thankfully, since it always makes me feel like crap to peep over the fence into other people's lives. My latest obsession has been couponing, anyway, but I by-passed that too, and found myself reading essays about my identity in Christ. I guess there is some worthwhile material on the internet. And a man at a piano calling down mercy.
I'm fried. But, too, I'm sad. My sister is sick. She is in a lot of pain. When we exchanged texts this morning, she was just trying to make it through the day. Sometimes just making it through the day requires the most mercy of all.
So pour it on, sweet Jesus. Rain it down. I'm waiting here to soak it up.
I am sure Fernando Ortega didn't know he was singing for me when he sat down to play Kyrie Eleison for the cameras in his home in New Mexico.
I put the kids to bed and now I'm sitting on the leather sofa, wine in hand. I usually don't drink alone, but Shep is out of town for the night, and so I've digressed, not only from my pious perch of eliminating sugar from my diet - ten peppermint wrappers (what a pitiful binge - I wasn't prepared) and a twice-emptied ice cream bowl litter my t.v. tray - but also down into a glass of wine - only one, but just one takes the edge off.
I'm blowing off steam. I want to go wild. I've been juggling all day, no, all week. Three kids and an armload of towels, to the Y and back every morning. Three wet kids, learning to swim - with success, so at least it's worth the effort. (One does the crawl. One does the float. One does the freestyle - meaning for now she is happy with what she knows and wants to be left alone.) Three stretching, straining, flailing, calling, weeping, whining, shouting, laughing, bossing, screaming, chattering, prattling, yammering, yattering, yapping, jawing, babbling, jabbering, bucking, braying kids. To breakfast, to make beds, to the potty, to the car, to the locker room, to the potty, to the pool, to the potty, to the pool, to the potty, to the car, to the store, to the car, to the house, to the nap, nap, nap, not-long-enough nap, to the grouchy - I mean, the evening - hours, to dinner, to bath if it's that day of the month, to bed, to bed, to bed, to bed. And then the baby is teething, so bedtime is done three times. Three times' the charm.
I want to go wild.
I feel better when I am measured and even - no sugar, bed by ten (or eleven...thirty), plenty of sleep, then hitting my marks: breakfast by eight, out the door by 9:30, nap by 2:30 - three at the latest - dinner by six, bath (I tried to add that one in there as a regular thing - ha!) by seven, bed by eight, eight, eight, NO SUGAR, BED BY TEN! But then a day comes when I've got to blow off steam, and I'm eating...whatever I can find...with the internet on my lap, wasting time down rabbit trails.
I googled how to grow great-tasting cucumbers. After half a glass of wine, that innocent query almost turned me aside into dangerous waters, but I stayed my course and found out that size makes the biggest difference in taste of cucumbers grown in the garden - really! (Irrigation and soil acidity are also important factors.)
I by-passed Facebook somehow, thankfully, since it always makes me feel like crap to peep over the fence into other people's lives. My latest obsession has been couponing, anyway, but I by-passed that too, and found myself reading essays about my identity in Christ. I guess there is some worthwhile material on the internet. And a man at a piano calling down mercy.
I'm fried. But, too, I'm sad. My sister is sick. She is in a lot of pain. When we exchanged texts this morning, she was just trying to make it through the day. Sometimes just making it through the day requires the most mercy of all.
So pour it on, sweet Jesus. Rain it down. I'm waiting here to soak it up.
Saturday, May 21, 2011
Whining
Ok, so do you ever have one of those days when you can't get on good terms with your honey no matter how hard you try? (Of course you have.) I don't want to be self-centered. I don't want to act like I'm in kindergarten. I don't want to stress my husband out more than he is already. I know work has been slow for him until a week ago and I got spoiled having him around so much and he just has a month of this busyness and then it will probably be slow again. I know he is worried and preoccupied and stressed out and is spinning twenty plates at the same time and has a crushing load of paperwork which he hates more than almost any other possible thing. I know he has the burden of supporting his family and I wouldn't want to carry that and I'm so lucky and blessed and thankful that I don't have to. I know he's exhausted from driving all over Florida this week and getting up at six a.m. with all three kids this morning and making them pancakes and letting me sleep in. I know that he would rather have played with us than stay cooped up in his office doing officey things on a Saturday. I know he would rather stay at home and have dinner with us than go to his colleague's retirement party tonight, two hours away. I know he would rather swim with his girls and rock his little buddy to sleep and then sit on the porch in the dark with me, smoking a cigar. I know.
But I just wanted to have a nice relaxing irresponsible Saturday where we didn't get anything done. I wanted to relax and sit on the couch with him, drinking coffee and playing on our computers while our children played on the floor at our feet - and in the next room and upstairs and on the back porch and on the couch with us and on our laps and on our backs and sometimes even on our heads. I just didn't want to be alone (with the children.)
Maybe I can get my act together before he gets home.
But I just wanted to have a nice relaxing irresponsible Saturday where we didn't get anything done. I wanted to relax and sit on the couch with him, drinking coffee and playing on our computers while our children played on the floor at our feet - and in the next room and upstairs and on the back porch and on the couch with us and on our laps and on our backs and sometimes even on our heads. I just didn't want to be alone (with the children.)
Maybe I can get my act together before he gets home.
Sunday, May 15, 2011
You Say Tomato
Let me tell you about my fifth child. First, you know, I have Grace. Then Emma's second, and third is baby Will. Max comes in at fourth place. (He's the dog.) I remember - but only very vaguely - a time when he was the first and only, but since my human babies started coming, Max has had to come to terms with his new rank, dead last. The good news for him, though, is he finally has a younger brother: Thirsty, my tomato plant.
Thirsty spends his days in a pot in a sunny corner of the pool deck. He's been known to be unruly and a little high maintenance. But I understand where he's coming from. There's a lot of sibling rivalry, for one thing - he has to compete for attention against so many - and it took awhile for me to adjust to having yet another set of needs to attend to. There have been times, I know, when he feels...desiccated, but I'm glad he hasn't given up.
From the beginning, I have checked on him every day, often two or three times a day. At first I worried about browning leaves and leaf miner tracks (listen to me - I sound like I know what I'm talking about), but when those things didn't kill him, I let them go. The thing that has been the most worrisome is he has had a tendency to dry out so fast I have had a hard time keeping up with it. Every other day I would pour an entire bucket of water over him, by increments, letting each portion soak into and through his soil before pouring on more. But if I didn't get to it at least every other day, for whatever reason - maybe because I had a babe in arm or was running out the door or just put it off and forgot about it - stalks would bend over to the ground, every leaf would droop. There were times I was afraid I'd lost him.
His fruit bore the marks of his suffering. He developed blossom end rot, which is apparently "especially prevalent when rapidly growing, succulent plants are exposed suddenly to a period of drought." (Yes, like any good mother, I have spent time online researching his ailments.) I have to be honest: from the start, I suspected a little mulch would help. But I didn't know how much it would help. That's why I didn't get around to it for about a month. I intended to go buy some. Finally it occurred to me to just borrow some old mulch from the front shrub bed (with my bare hands - I have the fire ant bites to prove it.) Once I threw that in Thirsty's pot, life changed for him. If I'd known what it would mean to him, I would have done it sooner. Now, things are going much better, and if they continue this way, I might even have to change his name.
As it is, I'm proud of my little tomato guy. Not only has he shown great fortitude, persevering in all circumstances, he has borne fruit from his trials - literally - and his fruit is something to write home to mama about. It isn't like what you get from the grocery store. His tomatoes are so tomatoey they taste like tomato sauce. Even Daddy gives them high marks, and Daddy doesn't like tomatoes. Daddy even suggested planting more tomato plants, which is really not like him because up until now he has not been into gardening, especially not into me gardening (though he puts up with it as long as I don't do it in the front yard.) The sight of what he deems my half-begun, abandoned science experiments (you have to fail before you succeed!) symbolizes for him a chaos that is on the verge of overtaking our life. It gives him anxiety. The thought of Daddy getting in on the game, though, and taking my little horticultural brood under his wing makes me feel not so alone. It gives me hope for the future of our homestead, especially if he'll be in charge of irrigation.
Thirsty spends his days in a pot in a sunny corner of the pool deck. He's been known to be unruly and a little high maintenance. But I understand where he's coming from. There's a lot of sibling rivalry, for one thing - he has to compete for attention against so many - and it took awhile for me to adjust to having yet another set of needs to attend to. There have been times, I know, when he feels...desiccated, but I'm glad he hasn't given up.
From the beginning, I have checked on him every day, often two or three times a day. At first I worried about browning leaves and leaf miner tracks (listen to me - I sound like I know what I'm talking about), but when those things didn't kill him, I let them go. The thing that has been the most worrisome is he has had a tendency to dry out so fast I have had a hard time keeping up with it. Every other day I would pour an entire bucket of water over him, by increments, letting each portion soak into and through his soil before pouring on more. But if I didn't get to it at least every other day, for whatever reason - maybe because I had a babe in arm or was running out the door or just put it off and forgot about it - stalks would bend over to the ground, every leaf would droop. There were times I was afraid I'd lost him.
His fruit bore the marks of his suffering. He developed blossom end rot, which is apparently "especially prevalent when rapidly growing, succulent plants are exposed suddenly to a period of drought." (Yes, like any good mother, I have spent time online researching his ailments.) I have to be honest: from the start, I suspected a little mulch would help. But I didn't know how much it would help. That's why I didn't get around to it for about a month. I intended to go buy some. Finally it occurred to me to just borrow some old mulch from the front shrub bed (with my bare hands - I have the fire ant bites to prove it.) Once I threw that in Thirsty's pot, life changed for him. If I'd known what it would mean to him, I would have done it sooner. Now, things are going much better, and if they continue this way, I might even have to change his name.
As it is, I'm proud of my little tomato guy. Not only has he shown great fortitude, persevering in all circumstances, he has borne fruit from his trials - literally - and his fruit is something to write home to mama about. It isn't like what you get from the grocery store. His tomatoes are so tomatoey they taste like tomato sauce. Even Daddy gives them high marks, and Daddy doesn't like tomatoes. Daddy even suggested planting more tomato plants, which is really not like him because up until now he has not been into gardening, especially not into me gardening (though he puts up with it as long as I don't do it in the front yard.) The sight of what he deems my half-begun, abandoned science experiments (you have to fail before you succeed!) symbolizes for him a chaos that is on the verge of overtaking our life. It gives him anxiety. The thought of Daddy getting in on the game, though, and taking my little horticultural brood under his wing makes me feel not so alone. It gives me hope for the future of our homestead, especially if he'll be in charge of irrigation.
Monday, April 18, 2011
This Again
Oh nuts. I'm depressed. Why????!!!!!
I must be repressing something. That's usually where it comes from - some anger or sadness I'm too scared to feel, or some thought that has slipped in like a dart under the surface of my consciousness. So, what is it? Why is it so hard to know myself?
"I don't wanna." That's how I feel about life today, though, happily, not about my children. They have a way of keeping me moving and making me smile. Sitting with them while they have their goldfish and juice, getting in the pool - all the way in - those things are pleasant. They give me a lift. Jumping on the tramp - gets my wiggles out. The current favorite there is "Princess Dies." The available roles are: Evil witch, dying Princess, and saving Prince. We go round and round. Everyone gets a shot at killing, dying, and reviving. It seems we could go on for hours. But when we're sweaty enough, there's a hankering for the pool.
We get in. By the time I work all the way up to putting my head under, the princesses are ready to get out, and I hear Will making noises in his room. I swim under water all the way to the steps, the water cool, sliding over my skin. I shake off and towel dry. I'm refreshed in body, and a little bit in soul. Will is not himself today, though, either. He's teething or has a virus, or maybe thrush? He puts his head down on me as I carry him out. Maybe he's listless like me, on the inside, listless of heart.
It's not that I don't want to parent. It's not even that I don't want to do the dishes and the laundry. I mean, I'm not dying to. But I do them. I mean, I'll do them.
It's my live-er. It doesn't wanna. There's a weight on my chest.
I think my faith has been wavering. I was going so strong, completely confident that Jesus was at work in me and in others through me as I hung on him in dependence. I was praying into the areas I saw in my life and those around me where I longed for God to work and make his glory shine. And I knew he was accomplishing his purposes even as I was praying for them. I think some little arrow of doubt found its mark in me somewhere.
Take heart, my soul. Be strong. Wait for the Lord. Right in those places you most desire to see him - those are the places he is most at work. He gave you the desire, and he gives you the prayers, and those are the places where he is rushing in. He hastens to you, lowly heart.
I must be repressing something. That's usually where it comes from - some anger or sadness I'm too scared to feel, or some thought that has slipped in like a dart under the surface of my consciousness. So, what is it? Why is it so hard to know myself?
"I don't wanna." That's how I feel about life today, though, happily, not about my children. They have a way of keeping me moving and making me smile. Sitting with them while they have their goldfish and juice, getting in the pool - all the way in - those things are pleasant. They give me a lift. Jumping on the tramp - gets my wiggles out. The current favorite there is "Princess Dies." The available roles are: Evil witch, dying Princess, and saving Prince. We go round and round. Everyone gets a shot at killing, dying, and reviving. It seems we could go on for hours. But when we're sweaty enough, there's a hankering for the pool.
We get in. By the time I work all the way up to putting my head under, the princesses are ready to get out, and I hear Will making noises in his room. I swim under water all the way to the steps, the water cool, sliding over my skin. I shake off and towel dry. I'm refreshed in body, and a little bit in soul. Will is not himself today, though, either. He's teething or has a virus, or maybe thrush? He puts his head down on me as I carry him out. Maybe he's listless like me, on the inside, listless of heart.
It's not that I don't want to parent. It's not even that I don't want to do the dishes and the laundry. I mean, I'm not dying to. But I do them. I mean, I'll do them.
It's my live-er. It doesn't wanna. There's a weight on my chest.
I think my faith has been wavering. I was going so strong, completely confident that Jesus was at work in me and in others through me as I hung on him in dependence. I was praying into the areas I saw in my life and those around me where I longed for God to work and make his glory shine. And I knew he was accomplishing his purposes even as I was praying for them. I think some little arrow of doubt found its mark in me somewhere.
Take heart, my soul. Be strong. Wait for the Lord. Right in those places you most desire to see him - those are the places he is most at work. He gave you the desire, and he gives you the prayers, and those are the places where he is rushing in. He hastens to you, lowly heart.
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