Unchangeable

     Change.

     I don't like it. I rebel against it. I exert myself in trying to hinder the ultimate inevitable of life. There is nothing I can do, though, to stand against the oncoming rage that this river holds.

     And it's a river called change. And change makes me weep.

     That sounds dramatic, even for me. It sounds desperate. But it is, because I often am desperate. Because I lose sight of what change truly is. Of what change truly means. And all I can see is how change is affecting my plans and how those plans are going to come crashing around my head like an erupting Mt. St. Helen. But I so often fail to see change for what it truly is.

     They tell me change is normal. The media. The scientists. The brains of society. They say that my body is in a constant state of change. (I wonder, then, why I am not in a constant state of weep?) In order for our physical bodies to remain healthy and functioning, they must constantly be turning themselves over and creating newness.

     Donald Miller discusses this concept in his book A Million Miles in a Thousand Years, as he quotes a friend:

     “People get stuck, thinking they are one kind of person, but they aren't. The human body essentially recreated itself every six months. Nearly every cell of hair and skin and bone dies and another is directed to its former place. You are not who you were in February.”

     My body is adept at change, and yet still my mind doesn't like it. Or perhaps that isn't even possible, because my mind is just as adept. Every word I say, every person I meet, every book I read, changes my mind. I am as a machine that only gets smarter if you show me something new.

     We all are.

     And yet, even as my mind grows as I write this, I still claim to hate change. And I am tempted to say that hate comes from my heart. But how can my heart hate that which it knows strongest through Christ: change?

     I was changed by a God who I could not resist. I could not stand against His change in my life. Then why do I buck so fiercely against all other changes? What is within me that hates it, that despises it, that accepts it reluctantly if I come to accept it at all? 

     Something was very strongly impressed upon me this summer that I had thought little about before I mean, I'd thought about it some, but not much. Not really. And that altering truth was this:

     God is unchangeable.

     And not just that He doesn't want to. It's not just that people haven't tried.

     God cannot change. It is not in His nature. It is utterly impossible for God to change in any way whatsoever.

     I watch a movie. I see a new actor I had previously not seen. I change because something new has entered my mind that had not entered it before. I listen to a new song. I meet a new person. I breath a new breath.

     And yet God knows all. There is nothing new under the sun. (Ecclesiastes 1:9) He is the same yesterday, today and forever. (Hebrews 13:8)

     I am the same NEVER. Nothing about me is ever the same as it was before. And yet I serve a God who knows no change. A God who is unchangeable. And that bring immeasurable hope, because my hope is founded in One who cannot possible change the reason that I hope in Him. Heartbreak, rejection, betrayal, fear, divorce, murder, dishonesty, sin. They are all a result of change.

     Of people changing. Of decisions changing. Of plans changing. Of hearts changing.

     But God exists outside of change. Change is not a part of Him.

     The author Sheldon Vanauken says this in his book, A Severe Mercy, in regards to another aspect of the earthly condition:

     C.S. Lewis, in his second letter to me at Oxford, asked how it was that I, as a product of a materialistic universe, was not at home there. 'Do fish complain of the sea for being wet? Or if they did, would that fact itself not strongly suggest that they had not always been, or would not always be, purely aquatic creatures?' Then, if we complain of time and take such joy in the seemingly timeless moment, what does that suggest?

     It suggests that we have not always been or will not always be purely temporal creatures. It suggests that we were created for eternity. Not only are we harried by time, we seem unable, despite a thousand generations, even to get used to it. We are always amazed at it – how fast it goes, how slowly it goes, how much of it is gone. Where, we cry, has the time gone? We aren't adapted to it, not at home in it. If that is so, it may appear as proof, or at least a powerful suggestion, that eternity exists and is our home.

     He is questioning why he hates time. Why he does not feel at home in it. Why it bothers him so. And he realizes it is because He serves and strives to be like a God who is outside of time. He realizes he was created for a timeless place to be a timeless person. And so he longs to be outside of time like his Father. 

     He longs to be timeless as God is timeless.

     And Vanauken's claims made me wonder if that is the very same reason I cannot grow accustomed to change. The same reason I hate it. Because I long to be like and be with an unchangeable God. Christ has changed me, yet still my heart long to be where I will never have to change again. Where it will not creep up on me like a foreboding shadow. Where what I love won't have to be traded away for something else.

     Where I will be perfect.

     In an eternity that does exist, and is most definitely our home.

    

Talk

I am guilty.
Guilty of talking too much when I should be still.
Guilty of worrying and discussing and gossiping.
When there's a problem in my life – be it large or not – I talk through it. On and on and on through it until I've talked myself in circles and still don't know my mind. And I am not the only one.

My type likes to talk things through. There is a type of people, so I hear,  who can somehow exist while not sharing their hearts hourly with those close to them. They just think through their problems. Just think! I couldn't do it. I have to talk. It's my reliever, my relaxer, my way of getting through the day.
There comes a time, though, when my words start spinning on themselves and I'm sick of talking. At the end of the day when I know I've said too much. At the end of the night when I realized I was too tired to be sharing my heart because my heart started bleeding out on the ground and no one in the room really wanted to see it.

At the end of the day, really, when I was too focused on me,
when I was too engulfed in talking through my life,
and I forgot to stop and listen to someone else's.

But more than that, I didn't do anything with all the words I threw out there in the atmosphere. They came up somewhere in my heart, and ran a little race to my brain, and came out, sometimes neatly and sometimes not so neatly, from my mouth: and then there they were. Out in the air, falling on someone's ears who can't do a thing to change my problems, or the problems of the person I'm talking about, or the problems of the world in general, and I'm guilty.

Guilty of talking too much.

I always liked the old words in the hymn. You know, Joseph M. Scriven was a very wise fellow when he said, “Take it to the Lord in prayer.” He didn't just mean those heart-stopping incidents when you fall on your knees in desperation and beg for someone's life. He didn't just mean the one night out of the school year when you're so overwhelmed that being in a coma sounds very relaxing. He meant all the time.
Any time.
And so did God.

Philippians 4:6-7 Do not be anxious about anything, but in everything by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests be made known to God. And the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus.

I can talk until I'm blue in the face and nothing will change in my life or in anyone else's. I can talk to God until I'm blue in the face, though, and He can move mountains. My words aren't falling on deaf ears then. He wants to see me daily take my heart out and let it bleed out on Him.

I spend a lot of time talking. A lot of time trying to figure out verbally what is going on. And there is nothing wrong with talking; all things in moderation. God gives every one a unique way to travel through life, and some of us just have to be really verbal about the whole thing. There is a beauty and freedom in being who we were created to be! Just imagine if the whole world was a bunch of non-talkative introverts.
Life would be boring.
But I was reminded of something this summer, after a friend and I had talked and talked and talked through a situation with no results. She reminded me that talking won't solve anything. It can clear our heads a bit and organize our thoughts into a concise order, but it won't change anything.

So we took it to the Lord in the prayer. And it relaxed our worries and released us from thinking that we had to figure it all out on our own.

And maybe, when you know you've spilled out as much as can be physically spilled, and you still can't make head or tail of your life, maybe take comfort in the fact that you won't figure it out all the way and you won't solve it all. And that talking might be your way of coping, but it's all about who you're talking to.

I'm all for talking, don't misunderstand me. Ask my sister and she will tell you of the many nights I've kept her awake. But, sometimes, I just know that it's not going to get me anywhere,
and I've just talked too much.

. ...For your Father knows what you need before you ask Him. (Matthew 6:8)

Her Majesty the Queen

It is no surprise to those who know me that I love to write letters. I find it a calming pursuit that is much needed in the present culture where handwriting is quickly going down-hill. There is just a lovelier aspect in seeing something handwritten as opposed to seeing something typed and printed.

Last month a friend put the idea in my head of writing to the Queen of England, and the more I thought about it, the more this idea appealed to me. So I pulled out my best paper, carved a seal, (which you can see half of in the above photo,) and started writing. I expressed to the Queen how much I admired her. I congratulated her on her Diamond Jubilee. I told her that it is one of my dreams to visit England. Hours after hard thought and practice letters, and taking great pride in my work, I addressed it.

Her Majesty The Queen
Buckingham Palace
London SW1A 1AA

The day before sending it off. Forgive the dirty mirror.

Last week I headed off to 5 days at camp, figuring that if I did happen to get a reply to my letter, I was months away from receiving it. Once again, my dreams came true. Arriving home tired and sunburned, this is what I found on my bed stand:

(I edited my address from off the envelope.)

It is a pamphlet with beautiful pictures of the Queen and a note saying, "I send you my grateful thanks for the words of support which you have so kindly sent on the occasion of the Sixtieth Anniversary of my Accession to the Throne."

 Yes, she regarded me as fan mail. (Which I suppose I am.) But the important part is: I got a letter from England!

So this month, and possibly next month, have turned out alright.

Silence is a Lost Art

              

      I'm sitting on the back deck. This is not an uncommon place to find me; my favorite mug full of ice water, my trusty laptop Lord Pondicherry, and lazy Mr. Tucket keeping me company with his contented snoring in the sunshine. My ear buds are in, but abnormally, they are silent. The birds are chirping in the trees and my brother is raking leaves on the lower porch, that delicious sound of the prongs hitting the concrete coming in sporadic rhythm.

     For a rare half minute, there was no one on the road by our house. You see, we live next to a fairly busy stretch of a 2-lane road, and a mere common ground away from the highway. There are always cars going past with a low whoosh, children coming home from school, couples walking, the same beagle who breaks out semi-monthly, sniffing her way dangerously close to the traffic.

     But for half a minute, there was no noise but the afternoon sounds of nature. (As much nature as we get in suburbia.) And it was beautiful. I enjoy drinking in those few seconds of quiet, wishing they would last forever. Wishing I lived five miles away from everyone and had ten or so dogs snoring around me as I write, healthy sweat dripping down my face as I sit in the sunshine, my body strong from days of outdoor work.

     This is reality, though. And the cars start racing past again. 

     Silence is a lost art. We live in a very loud culture. Entertainment is at the tip of our fingers every single second of the day. We can listen to music, watch movies, chat, talk on the phone, drive. Communication is noisy. Entertainment is noisy. Work is noisy. Play is noisy. Life is noisy.

     Just when I think I have a moment of silence, the phone rings. The dog barks. The workmen next-door start their everlasting banging. The floors creak when I walk. The sink drains. The CD skips. The organ in the front room emits its continual humming. The dishwasher churns.

     The phone rings.

     The dog barks.

     I read somewhere that NASA made a room that was 99% percent sound proof. I say kudos. The world needs more silence, less distraction. More time to think, less time to talk. More time to focus, less time to be entertained.

     Apparently, if you were to stay in this room for any length of time, you would go crazy.  Your mind begins to make up noises that don't exist. You hear things that aren't there. Our brains and bodies are tuned to want noise.

     But I believe they're also tuned to need silence. To be quiet. To cut all this extra distraction and actually realize how soothing it is to be silent and be still.

     Silence in a delicacy these days that a lot of people would give a lot to have. We're so annoyingly noisy all the time. Everything we do is noisy. And that's okay, to some extent. Noise is a beautiful part of life.

     But there can be too much of a good thing.

     And amid the noise, regarldess of it being “good noise,” or “bad noise,” we're losing silence, which is the art of not making any noise at all. 

     Mr. Tucket woke up and is hanging his head pitifully through the banisters. The blender's going in the kitchen behind me. Storm clouds are rumbling in the distance. Life is moving. The world is turning. Progress is being made. And that's okay.

     Sometimes I just wonder if we really have to be so noisy in the process.

I Should...But I'm Not

I really don't think I need to explain this. (Click to view it larger.) My life is a sad, sad circle of giving myself excuses on why I shouldn't be writing.

It's a wonder I get anything done. I type a line. Stare into space. Make hand motions. Eat a handful of pretzels. Read what I wrote last time. Read it again. Edit it. Read it again. Realize I haven't actually written anything today.

Ahh. Should I be writing now? Yes. But some things are easier said than done.

"What no wife of a writer can ever understand is that a writer is working when he’s staring out the window."

Rudolph Erich Rasco