We imbibed. Every word washed down smooth and easy. Much like the smokey hibiscus suggestions in those globular glasses of wine. Stems in hand, pages twixt fingers, lips coated in roses. We read.

This poem.

It's powerful and so I dare not post it here. Preferably, you ought to get up, go to a bookstore, the library (gasp! who goes there anymore?), or perhaps even a wise parental's bookshelf and seek a hardcopy of this gem. The pages need to be turned to obtain full effect. It's like vaporized vortices in a wind tunnel. Understood, but only to the extent simulation allows. Appreciation is in the pressed pages of a book's printed past.

In response:

My urge to simplify overwhelms my overstimulated self. Twitching under the electrodes of wireless interface and faceless affirmation, I am left emptier than before. Continued indulgence is like sticking a finger in an outlet even after I've unplugged. My apathy and compliance turns into a perpetuation of these jaded confidence boosters and "identity" providers. Poppycock, I say. It's never enough. Seeking the sought and soldering the present to some future sight to be seen. This is confusing indeed, but surely it sounds sensical to those of you caught in the same whirlwind of misplaced expectations that I seem to be. You lose your effervescence. You filter out the simplicity of delight. You maintain a false cognate and have the tendency to claim the integrity of its origin. Stick with me:

Berry's language exchanges muddied thoughts (much like the ones I just spilled out) for exact words. A prowess that challenges us all. Nevertheless, he talks about separation or removal like it's our intended state of being. And while I trust his insight, the extremism strikes a dis-chord.

Hashing it out with friends, we stumbled upon the default Christian paradox of, "to be in the word but not of it." How troublesome would that prepositional switcharoo prove to be! And while it helped Telemachus and many others justify their monasticism, how do I rewire my modern life to make this proverb harken Truth? Well...

While my tendency is much like my brown-clad friend--yes, I did want to be a nun in the 7th grade--I fear that is not the "solution" I'm granted in my missional statement of living. Instead, I should cohabitate with the infrastructure that supports postmodernity without going to it for my lifeblood. In this position of distance, I am able to relate to the trapped, seeing my natural tendency to dive in head first. Yet in my abstinence from emotional whoredom, the Spirit has room to whisper to my heart's ears little reminders of my purpose.

Metaphorically, He constrains me, holds me back, subdues me, releases me, relieves me. One way I have thought of it for several months now--an articulation I've grown to love--is the following three-word phrase: He gathers me, grooms me, and gives me to the King.

My compulsions are conditional, but my practice is particular, and so I choose to refrain. To eliminate this margin, I've done away with one particular false-affirmation provider: instagram. Sounds petty, but I find more significance in those "likes" and "comments" than anyone should. This, along with several other apps are now gone. I have left no room for them to be a popup notification reinforcement of my artsy, hipster, desirable, humorous, filtered, hash-tagged self.

Admitting just how detrimental a little social photography website could be meant taking a huge sucker punch to the pride. It also meant submitting in one of those ways where you just feel like asking the Lord, "really? this too?" Bonhoeffer phrased it ideally when he said, "Christianity can never be merely intellectual theory, doctrine divorced from life, or mystical emotion, but always it must be responsible, obedient action, the discipleship of Christ in every situation of concrete everyday life, personal and public." The demands of my call pervade all margin for personal indulgence in worldly comforts. The split between sacred and secular is no compartmental arrangement for me.

But how can I claim freedom in living? Or say that I am "climbing this mountain with my hands wide open," when I'm clenching tight-fisted to the sand castle of an identity that my followers provide me? Simply put, I can't. I'm a walking paradox with sand grains stickin' to my palms. We all know how the beach bum's house fared when the rains came down and the floods came up...

Like sick patients, white-robed and institutionalized, we can at last be clean, though. Therapy, improvement and healthy-living is specially delivered. The Spirit helps give us a day-to-day plan. For me, I can better learn to target where I start to stretch the stitches and compromise the good work of the Great Healer.

So, is Berry's self-sustainability fanning the pride flame? "Yes," stated my curly, mop-headed friend in a tone about as blunt as a butter knife. Then, why give up something technological when that seems to be buying into exactly what Berry advocates? Because the Christian life is a negotiation of the two (sacred and secular), which have already been reconciled for us.

How do we live then with a balance that puts glory on display and self in submission? Be a minimalist? Perhaps, but not for minimalism's sake. Trim the fat? Perhaps, but not for skinny's appeal. Unplug? Perhaps, but only for the sake of breaking the world's pattern to renew the mind, which transforms the heart, the body, the soul.

And now, some of my proudest instagrams:

 #byebye

Take Notes

It's in the details. So, check out the small little addition on the right-hand pop-out menu called "Book Ends." I plan on updating this tab regularly with the books I'm reading or poetry I'm perusing. Sometimes there will be links to Amazon where you can buy books or Wikipedia where you can read a summary and history. Other times there will be links to Poetry Foundation where there's no need to buy anything to enjoy the spoils of literary inspiration. 

Leave feedback. Feel free to email me with questions, comments or inspiration for new reads. I'm always pining for an author or poem or book to challenge me...always.

[book] [ends]

Hissing Kettles

After several years of intense personal growth that happened to converge into a family narrative, us womenfolk in the Hyatt family seem to have emerged. Sounds like a grand enlightenment tale, but I assure you it's not. Instead it is more like a simpleton's claim to wealth. A happy dance of sorts.

 Over the five days that we were all home together, we sang, danced, cooked, played, ran, prayed, decorated and retold the major mountain climbs, half marathon runs and funny babysitting stories from the past three months. We realized we had all lost or gained like 2 pounds, changed the colors & cuts of our hair, and maybe even bought a new shirt or dress. 

But peel back the exterior.

Something inside is awakening.

Mom graced us with her piano playing. And since our house is like a big wooden box, sounds resonate. The harmonies of our sisterly voices reverberated off the organic materials that dad has collaged into our haven of a house.

"Dress down your pretty faith. Give me something real.
Leave out the thee and thou and speak to me now. 

Speak to my pain and confusion. 

Speak through my fears and my pride. 

Speak to the part of me that knows I'm something deep down inside. 

...

And I woke up this morning and realized that Jesus is not a portait. 

Or stained glass windows or hymns or all the tradition that surrounds us. 

And I thought it would be hard to believe in 

But it's not hard at all. 

To believe I've sinned and fallen short of the Glory of God. 

...

And He's not asking me to change in my joy for martyrdom 

He's asking to take my place. 

To stand in the gap that I have formed 

With His real, and His sweet, and His real amazing grace. 

And it's not just a sign or a sacrament. 

It's not just a metaphor for love. 

The blood is real and it's not just a symbol of your faith." 

"Awakening" by Sara Groves

In that moment, our borrowed bodies produced praise. Then the Spirit led us to catharsis. It was not a flaring forth sort of revelation. It kind of just oozed out. Like when the steam starts to swirl out of the kettle top: low and softly pitched, rising higher and more intensified. Then hissing begins to scream, announcing a boil. 

Like the steam twining from the spout of the kettle, God wafts our gratitude into His nostrils as He sits on the heavenly throne.

His martyrdom is our joy.

These earthly hardships are momentary trifles. Each of our warrior autobiographies all end with His victory. And we can rest in the assurance of a pardon that turns prayer wholly into praise. 

The Lord will sustain us, because He is our lifeblood. The death blow delivered to the Enemy when Christ died a burglar's death has enabled us to sing through our emptiness, "Glory to God." 

Our stories are written into songs. 

Cream and Sugar

Silhueta Con Crema 

Nunca se acaba 

Este perfil 

Algo iluminaba 

Detrás de marfil 

Silhouette with a side of cream

I just keeps going and going

This profile

A source casts a certain light

Behind the marble

shall become as

you put this pen

in my hand and you
take the pen from 
         my hand. the night
before the full moon

            the moon seems

full. what is missing

is a dark hungry

            sickle, the sliver

of shadow eating

            us up inside. after

the mountains breathe

their mint-and-sorrow

            green against the long

summer sky, they burst

            into hot october

laughter, lighting

the horizon with citrus,

            rust, and blood. you

put this knife in my

           

            hand. we pull. we

meet as oceans come

together, heaving

            against and clinging

across our salt watery

            boundary. we approach

endlessly like two rails

of one track, tied

            in a parallel that

promises our eyes to

            merge, someplace far

off in the distance. you

put this feather in my

            palm. my fingers

close around flight.

Evie Shockley

I Thee Wed

This week I received the pictures from a dear friend's wedding. We have long referred to each other as "kindred spirits." It's a term that transcends the sometimes one-dimensionality of the word "friend." It hints at a deeper attitudinal bonding. And for us, it's like a river runs runs through it: a communion of the Spirit in each of us. A sisterhood that has the insurance of eternal enjoyment. What a promise!

When she asked me to be in her wedding, I was delighted. But when she asked me to play the violin in her ceremony, I was nearly reduced to tears. The thought of serving and beautifying the ceremony of their love with the sweet sawing of my fiddle's strings, harmonizing with the voice of her sister and the guitar of a friend, elevated my heart to a new level of contentment.

"Thy Mercy"

Great Father of mercies, 

Thy goodness I own

In the covenant love of Thy crucified Son.

All praise to the Spirit, Whose whisper divine

Seals mercy and pardon and righteousness mine. 

Hallelujah!

Nearly three months later, the riotous preparation leading up to 8-10-12 is a thing of the past, the life in the succulents and the color of the peonies have faded, the dresses are wrapped in plastic and placed in the attic, and the homestead that was the venue has most certainly held a dozen weddings since. Yet the journey for them has hardly begun.

Talking on the phone with her just yesterday, she sighed, "We have so much work to do." 

500 miles away, I do not have the privilege of witnessing the daily enjoyment of their bondage to one another. Nor do I observe the details of dinner-making and the routines they are creating. The hardships are as prevalent as the high times in marriage, I've realized. But the entire curve - with its peaks and troughs - is constantly moving up the Y axis when the Spirit rests firmly on the X, always pushing us Higher.

The simplicity of the phrase "husbands love your wives & wives respect your husbands," grounds her in a truth that silences pride and promises fruitfulness. Future glory is present hope. Tilled and replanted, her role as a wife (and his as a husband) will continuously be a work-in-progress. And while the naivety of the wedding magazine, spoon-fed, "you're-my-other-half" type marriage is like a bubble bound to be burst, there is an unmatched sweetness in welding your soul to another's and decidedly living to glorify and enjoy Him forever...together.

If you love their wedding photography, check out Elisa & Tres from inContrast images!

And if you want to know more about Kelsey, check out her blog!

Trail Head

For me, city life is a steady ascent towards insanity. After four weeks or more, I reach a red-line level of  industrial civilization tolerance and must get away. Following the pattern of the One I love the most, I retreat. So, two weekends ago I met Him and myself and my friends in the mountains for a weekend that healed and rejuvenated in a variety of ways.

These are sweet times of indulgence. 

While I feel confirmed in my placement in a city that at times feels like the driest of deserts, there is a longing for a separate peace. It is like disdain and love have combined in a vigorous way. But is that not what He meant when He said, "Father, take away this cup?" For as much as His love preceded the comment, displacement from His present situation was still desirous.

And so we hunker down presently. Enjoy slivers of uninterrupted time in the garden. In fact, we go there out of soul-level necessity. Then we return to face the hardness of the Call accompanied by our Sweet Companion.

While my soul pants like a deer for water, I trust in the deep-flowing rivers of the Spirit within me. Irrevocable hope is provided. 

Fairy Land

After making two pilgrimages to the fairgrounds in the past two weeks, I began to wonder, "What is it about the fair that I really like?" In so many ways it opposes my personality. But in others it is like Marshville (home of Randy Travis and Country Livin') blown up on a huge scale. I am momentarily able to spiral back down the slide - like Alice in her wonderland - back to a world of commoners and their strollers, silver belt-buckled cowboys, tractor aficionados, and grease. It's a microcosm celebrating a sticky, smelly, smoky reality.

So we paid the entry fee and dressed the part, contended with the crowds and partook in the harkening of fall festivity. On two separate occasions, I navigated the grounds with familiarity and served a sort of shameless tour guide for the first-timers that were with me. Sharing is central to the experience: you share your bench, your food, your time and your worn out-ness when you leave.

By the end we are as tenuously attached to the campaigns as the adhesive with which the stickers cling to our shirts. "Got milk?" Sure. "Got Steve Troxler for the NC Agriculture Commissioner?" Sure.

It's a valuable thing: to spend time with friends in an arena where anything goes and you can laugh as loud as you'd like. So we did. And we endorsed our childish tendencies to skip, to hold hands, to pocket as many samples as you can, to eat until you're bursting at the seams, to ignore dietary boundaries, to twirl and spin until you can't walk down the exit stairs and to love the not-so-idyllic representation of a good time.

In all its overabundance, it was a bumper crop of fun.

 Two excited faces for the pot belly pig races!

 The little eager participant sitting in front of us was never chosen. But I loved her enthusiasm and the playfulness of her nail polish!

 the famous Methodist church ham biscuit

 Phyllis walked up and we discussed politics and religion... oh America!

 corn meal in the corn mill

the natural

 and the not so natural: deep-fried oreos

We went on 1 ride: the Fighter. And we fought the dizzies the rest of the night!

 Shelley and Bryan!

 fuego baby

Glad to spend the night together! 

Hump Day Ditty

I feel like a rare feather in this hat. Like a beautiful oddity.

All Purpose

...both the flour and now this blog. Looking through some old photos, I stumbled upon a photo documentation of one my favorite recipes for lemon bars. And since it's tuesday peruse-day (that's a thing, right?), why not make something succulent & sweet to accompany all that reading? 

In the mean time, preheat your oven to 350 degrees and grease your favorite baking sheet. 

For the crust

1/2 pound of unsalted butter at room temperature

1/2 cup of granulated sugar

2 cups of all purpose flour 

1/8 teaspoon of salt

Cream the butter and sugar with an electric mixer. Combine the flour and salt and add it to the mixer. Put the mixer on low and watch it come together. Then dump the dough onto a well-floured sheet of wax paper.

Roll into a ball. Then flatten it and press into the greased baking sheet you prepared earlier. Build a 1/2-inch edge on all sides. Put it in the refrigerator.

Two rules: hands are meant to get dirty & most kitchen utensils (rolling pins, spatulas...) are therefore unnecessary.

My grandmother used to suit up the five of us little ladies-in-waiting in her stained, eyelet aprons. They would drag like wedding veil trains around our ankles. She employed our mess-craving help, let us sit indian-style on top of the kitchen table and play with the dough. In reality, this was only making her culinary creation better: "hands should always do the kneading." 

Alright, let's make the lemon filling while the crust chills.

For the lemon layer

6 large eggs

2 1/2 cups of sugar

2 tablespoons of grated lemon zest (4-6 lemons worth)

1 cup of freshly-squeezed lemon juice

1 cup of all purpose flour

Whisk everything together in a bowl.

Pour the lemon layer over the crust and bake for 30 to 35 minutes or about 5 minutes beyond the point where the filling is set. Basically, once it stops jiggling when you go to check the dish, bake for a few more minutes. Then take it out and let it cool to room temperature before cutting and serving.

Dust with powdered sugar. 

If you're feeling something fancy, cut a slice of lemon, dip it in sugar, and place it on top.

This is where I insert the final product photo, but I don't have one. They really are just that good. Once they came out of the oven, I retired the camera and began consumption. As should you. 

Enjoy!

Thanks you Smitten Kitchen for the recipe inspiration!

Watershed

For the third weekend in a row, I went away. Excited for the annual trip to Camp Dixie, I geared up for the social and the spiritual, an alliterative combination of words that describe nearly every Christian getaway out there. This one, however, is near and dear to my heart. As a senior, it's my final year. So, we vowed to make it our best, to go out with a bang and to blob, go cart, swim, jump, hammock, run, canoe, dance, eat, sing to our hearts' content. The Lord took our willingness and ran.

"Engaging hearts and minds in worship" is normally what praise bands say prior to entering into a series of songs, but truly, truly I tell you, that's what it does. There's something about songs, as evidenced by all 150 Psalms, that allows the Spirit to do His work in tendering our hearts. For many years, I frowned upon the sensorial experience of our Lord, thinking it was only for the weak-minded and shallow-hearted. All it took was a good whipping in systematic theology, catechisms and Puritan prayer to spiral me into proper Christian reflection. Boy, was I missing out?! And while a foundational bedrock of theology supplements my meditation and grounds me in the Truth my heart so easily forgets, if I don't feel Him, breathe Him in and experience the tingling sensation the Spirit provides, then I'm severely neglecting the totality of His promises. And while I've spent many months diving deep into spiritual gifts that rocked me like a buoy in the perfect storm, I realized that I worship an immutable God regardless of my articulation of Him. Otherwise, I am not completely perceiving my share in the spoils of Christ's victory on the cross. Christ died so that I would live and have life to the full, able to glorify Him AND enjoy Him.

In full awareness of my getaway privilege, I went off into the woods to spend time with the Lord: to hang from His trees, to dialogue with Him, to read His love poetry to me and to write Him some, to surround myself with one of the greatest testimonies to His expansiveness (both micro and macro scales), and to sing and dance with His people. It was imperfect in every way - sticky, smelly, writhing, restless, irritated, sore, cold and slow - but nonetheless a slice of the final version that's to come in the next life.