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.