to carry us through.

this last weekend was offered up to me unexpectedly a couple of weeks ago, when a friend of mine invited me and a few of our other friends to spend the weekend over in central Washington. the plan was to spend the fourth of July at the lake, and drive up and back together. the idea sounded like fun to me from the beginning--I like these friends, and water, and also getting out of town--so I said I'd love to. I'd say my expectations were medium; a good time, something fun and different to do.

well, my expectations were absolutely blown out of the water. big time. I think, looking back over the many weekends I've had in my life (most of them good, I'm sure), this one was the best. I got to spend loads of time with a few people I love, I got to know some people that I am now very fond of, I got to drive long distances while listening to Tina Fey talk about her life, and I got to participate in several adventurous watersports that I can now cross off my mental bucketlist. it was just one of those 3-day periods where basically everything was fun and amazing, and that's kind of a rare thing in life.

and then it ended. I came home last night and put away my deflated blow-up floatie that I had splashed around with in the lake just the day before. I put away my swimsuits and my cooler and I washed the Wenatchee dust off my car. this morning, I woke up to a regular Monday in my own little town. not long ago, this would have given me major post-vacation letdown. it still did, a little bit. but the older I've gotten, the more I've come to realize that good things ending doesn't negate them in any way. the fact that they happened is what matters most.

I've got all these little memories and images and soundbytes locked safely away in my head. I can remember most of the hilarious things that were said and done, see the scrubby landscape and brilliant lake in my head, hear the voices and laughter of my friends, long after the sounds died away. I've still got the experience under my belt, and I'm still a fuller, happier, more copious person after last weekend than I was before. things happen, moments happen, weekends happen in order to change us, and they end because it's in their nature to do so.  but they leave a mark on us--and the good times leave us smiling, with stories and pictures and a gleam in our eyes to carry us through to the next great adventure.

#lovewins, and we need to show it. //

I am, like many I am sure, hesitant to comment on the subject of our recent supreme court ruling. There is so much potential to be wrong, to offend, to come off entirely the wrong way. But at the same time, I think there are things that need to be said, and maybe I need to say them. So here goes.

There's a hashtag going around that most of you have probably seen. For the past four days, it's adorned rainbow-watermarked pictures of gay and heterosexual individuals alike, all rejoicing at this newest constitutional ruling. And the thing is, most of the remarks I've seen are beautifully written and full of genuine joy. The individuals posting these pictures are truly, truly overjoyed at what has happened. They have responded to this supreme court ruling much the way I have responded to phenomenally good news in my own life. I get the sentiment--not toward this, but I get it just the same.

On the flipside, barring the remarks I've seen from within my own church and churches close to me, everything I've heard so-called Christians comment on the subject has been hateful and rude and, quite frankly, utterly shameful. In fact, to be quite honest with you, looking from the posts made by most of the pro-LGBTQers to the ones written by those against, I tend to like the pro a lot better. This isn't to say that I agree with their position or why they're rejoicing, because I don't. Problems abound. But problems also abound in the words of the right-wing conservative evangelicals who are posting for all the world to see that they hate these fags and sodomites who will hopefully burn in Hell for what they've done, and ASAP.

I am not saying that our God is not one of judgment. He is. He has endowed all his creatures with an innate sense of what is right and wrong, and there are consequences for our disordered love, for our rejection of what He has put into place. I believe this to be true with every fiber of my being--and that is part of what makes this issue important. If God didn't care what we did, if He were really the blind watchmaker who set the world in order and then left it to run without a pre-ordained course and plan, then none of this would even matter. We could all just do what we please, marry who we please, say whatever rude things we please.

But the same law of God that ultimately sets the pattern and plan for marriage is also a gospel, a beautiful and perfectly-woven story wherein God created mankind as an outpouring of His love, giving us his law so that we might grow ever closer to Him, gathering all nations and all people, each and every one of us a sinner, each and every one of us straying from His love and His law but then perfectly redeemed, perfectly invited back to the right order of love, the designed order.

The God who gave us law gave us also beauty, pleasure, romance, and the ability to forgive and give grace to others, just as He has done for us. These human beings are as much made in the image of God as we are, rejoicing in their false idea of love only because they have hearts capable of longing for love in the first place, hearts ultimately looking for satisfaction in something that can never satisfy them. This should only make us sad, make us hurt for them, but it should not make us angry. It should not make us lash out with self-righteous anger that we have no right and no reason to have.

They say that love wins, because when we as Christians are acting as we are, why should they not believe it? Why should they not see our hatred and bitter words and understand this supreme court ruling to be the ultimate victory of love over hate?

Our duty is to disciple, to minister, to demonstrate to every single person around us that what we have inside of us is not hate, but rather the best love of all; the love that forgives and feeds, that bestows kindness and gives grace, that demonstrates the law and love of God in word and in deed, through lives that, instead of cursing the sinners grasping onto this false rainbow, proclaim the love and mercy declared by the first one.

cast your cares. //

every finals week is the same way. it's one giant cycle of worries and freak-outs and resolutions and rejoicings. day in and day out for five or six or seven days, it's moments of intense pressure and distress and tears, and then moments of relief and happiness. it's going from "there's no way I can do this," to "oh my gosh, I just did it. whaddya know."

but what if there was only confidence, only gladness, only the moments of gratitude that usually come only after a test has been conquered, after a paper has been written and turned in? what if we realized that the very fact that we are here, breathing, studying, thinking, is a gift and a blessing and a cause for rejoicing in and of itself? let's be real here--we have no reason to run up our blood pressure or waste tears or flop back on our beds complaining that our lives are the worst. we have no reason to worry and no reason to be sad. in fact, we have no right to any of those things. we have only one duty in finals week and every other week or day or minute when things get hard or unpleasant:

be  t h a n k f u l. realize that your life is actually pretty great. realize that because we have a Savior who freed us from sin and the devil and gave us every good thing, we have nothing to fear and nothing to complain about. and in the case of this finals week, these last few days before the golden months of summer, we have quite a few amazing things to love and thank the Lord for. we have flowers and shady trees and green grass. we have teachers who care about us and want to help us learn and think and become copious. we have classmates and friends and parents who love and support us no matter what, no matter whether we bomb that final or ace it. really.

this week shouldn't be a cycle of highs and lows. nervousness is normal and even helpful, but sadness and depression are not. be happy. let the grace of God wash over you. pray about what's worrying you, and pray that it would stop worrying you. thank God for the opportunities He's given you, and remember that He's gotten you through every final, every paper, every time. study outside and smile because the sun is warm and unfailing. and more than anything, attack what's been set before you. face what God's given you to do with a fierce heart and a ready mind. give it your all, and if you have to, sin boldly. God saved us for this, to work hard and sing praise and trust in Him.

so go: put your worries away. write and sleep and eat and fill yourself up with praise.

blank pages. //

almost exactly a year ago, I sat down and composed a post about finishing freshman year. I remember it like it was yesterday--sitting down with this same laptop, compiling my thoughts and concerns and excitement. I couldn't believe I had been at NSA for a whole school year.

and now, just like that, press fast forward and watch the days whir past and it's been another freaking year. I don't know how this keeps happening.

we sat in our last lecture of sophomore year this afternoon. I remember sitting in the first lecture for that class back in August, excited and nervous and with no idea what to expect. and now, I can't really imagine not having sat in the class sixty or so times, making awkward eye contact with my classmates during lectures on reproduction, surreptitiously eating cookies and drinking coffee, acting out photosynthesis and passing around turtle shells and coral. is this what all of life is like, beginning to end? just starting out and then, all of a sudden, being done?

I guess I could have known (probably did know) a year ago that I would inevitably be sitting here, a year later, looking back on another year spent. but this is what we do and will continue to do as long as we live. we look back on the past, and brace ourselves with excitement and longing and trepidation for the future. in five years, or ten, I could be (probably will be) sitting down at a laptop, typing up thoughts and reminiscing on years past. and this moment at the end of my sophomore year will not really be an end, but only a beginning. and I'll think to myself, as I'm thinking to myself now,

I had no idea.

this makes me feel sick and happy and sad all at the same time. I miss all the old moments, even the ones that just happened, and I like this moment, and I know in a second it'll be gone and I'll be a different person. and that by the end of my life, all my full years will just be a compilation of a million moments, 80 or 90 past years that blend and run together and form as a lot one cohesive, messy, hard, amazing story. there will be thousands of endings and beginnings and things that will never happen again and things that haven't happened yet, and that's the only way it can be. it's the only way it's supposed to be.

we'll never sit in that classroom the same way, or talk about the same things, or exchange the same looks. but I'll also never breathe this same air. I'll never live through another sixth of May, two thousand fifteen. these things have to pass on and away and make room, but they're never really gone. God knows where I was a year ago and where I am at this second and where I will be next year and the year after that. He creates and understands every single moment that passes, the good ones and the bad ones and the ones that don't even register. all the fullness of our lives and our understanding is wrapped up in Him, so that we can periodically stop, as I'm doing right now, and reflect on just a tiny portion of them. I know that this moment will pass, as will all of junior year and senior year and the rest of my life, but not for nothing--it's all etched permanently and meaningfully into my story, and there are pages and pages full of beautiful words and pictures, and many more still blank.

so let's get to it. 

the memory challenge. //

I've decided to do something fun, because it's Spring Break & the school year is winding down, and I really need to write more. so here's the plan--7 days, 7 good memories from the past year, put down on paper (screen?) vividly and creatively. join me if you want, we'll see how it goes.

dancing toward bethlehem. //

If there is only enough time in the final
minutes of the 20th century for one last dance
I would like to be dancing it slowly with you,
say, in the ballroom of a seaside hotel.
My palm would press into the small of your back

as the past hundred years collapsed into a pile
of mirrors or buttons or frivolous shoes,
just as the floor of the 19th century gave way
and disappeared in a red cloud of brick dust.

There will be no time to order another drink
or worry about what was never said,
not with the orchestra sliding into the sea
and all our attention devoted to humming
whatever it was they were playing.

-Billy Collins, Dancing Toward Bethlehem

I guess there's a special kind of reverence to be had, watching an era slip away, but when the clock struck midnight on December 31st, 1999, I was four years old, probably in bed in our old house. As my parents no doubt rejoiced that Y2K hadn't wreaked havoc on their computer systems, I slept peacefully. I had no idea that a century had just turned over, something most people alive at that moment would only experience once. In fact, it wouldn't be for another 10 years that New Year's Eve meant anything to me at all.

But I think as the years roll on, they start to carry new importance for me. You can look back at what the year has brought, listen to the Greatest Hits of 2014 on the radio, and realize that there is a unique quality to every year, that as the cheesy adage goes about the snowflake, no two are completely alike. And we can either be incredibly relieved to watch the clock tick past midnight, or we can be sad to see it go. But either way, it does. And all you can do is carry the memory.

 I could talk about everything that happened to me in 2014, but that would be incredibly boring to everyone except the few people that went through those things with me (okay, maybe even to them). I could also talk about everything that happened of world importance, like how Robin Williams died and we will all miss him, or how all those planes disappeared in Asia and no one knows where they went, or how Iggy Azalea showed the world both that white girls can rap, and that spiders can be made into really hot metaphors. But we've all heard that, too.

What matters is 2014. The whole year. Another year that we got, every one of us, filled to the brim with new blessings and new hardships and everything else that God chose to pour out. Regardless of whether we think of it as a "good year" or a "bad year," it's still a gift. It's still another 365 days that we got to be on this earth with other people: people we love easily, or try to love, or, in some cases, love in ways that we wish we didn't. It's another year with four seasons, and new experiences, ones that we appreciate and ones that we don't. And yes--the reality of the thing is that those planes did disappear, and two of my friends have lost loved ones in the past week, and this year will forever cast a dark shadow on the lives of many, many people. But that doesn't mean that it didn't mean anything, that it wasn't exactly what God had in store for us at this moment in our lives, at this moment in history. 

So tonight, as the clock strikes midnight, whether you're surrounded by joy and excitement or bitter mourning, remember: there will never be another 2014. Ever. We will get more years, all different kinds of them, but once December 31st 2014 turns into January 1st 2015, that's it. And all we can do, as another year drops away into nothing, is be thankful. For the good, and the bad, as painful as that may be. Because on the perfectly-crafted roadmap of our existence, 2014 is just another dot, just another stop along the way, but it's taking you somewhere, and me, and everybody else.

Now that I'm older, I'm determined to watch the passing of the years with special reverence. I will not sleep through the milestones, through the stops along the road, as if they could somehow be anything but significant. Each one means something. 2014 meant something, and 2015 will mean something different. And all we can do is rejoice in all of it, and take what we've learned, and march forward into what comes next. 

one year. //

I walked in for the first time on a cold, bitter, late-afternoon in December. the lights were on, shining through the few front windows and the skylight in the sanctuary.

inside, the chairs had been set out all in rows facing the front. a few people were sitting near the front, commenting on the placement of the chancel and the communion table and the chairs for the pastors. I put my coat down on one of the chairs, and smiled excitedly at the other musicians. this was it.

we had spent the last year in construction and preparation and legal negotiations. we painted and put up walls and built the choir loft. we spent hours turning an old motorcycle showroom into a church. and periodically, we gathered in the empty, unfinished sanctuary and sang hymns. and we couldn't wait for what this place was going to become.

and here I was, the night before our first worship in our building. this place was all our own--the thing we had prayed for and waited for and worked for. there was the baby grand piano in the corner, shiny and beautiful and waiting for someone to play it. I had wheedled my way into being the first Trinity pianist to get to play in the new building, and now I sat down and played for the first time, and the sound resonated through the space.

being there felt amazing and too good to be true and completely bizarre all at once. I couldn't believe that we were really here: that everything had come together, and that the next morning, the church family would be here, rejoicing and singing and passing joyous and thankful and excited peace. as I sat behind the piano, I looked out at the sanctuary, and I tried to imagine what it would be like to worship here Sunday after Sunday, to have this place become truly ours, to have a real church after so many years.

it has been better than I ever could have imagined. people talk about a house becoming a home, when you fill it with the people you love, and that has been a million times more true with our church. as this year has gone by, it's gone from being "the building" to church. it's the place we worship, and sing and fellowship. it's the place we potluck, and hold babies and pray together. in this place, we've been through death and marriage and baptism, together as a single unit. and it's only been a year.

when I think about what we've been blessed with, I'm so thankful. I could never have imagined that a building other than my own home could become so dear to my heart, but this one has. this past year has been an incredible gift, and I can't wait for the years to come, as our church becomes even beautiful and prosperous and rich with memories.

as in all things, soli deo gloria.