my author friend

One woman I met last weekend is an author. She wrote a devotional filled with poems, essays, verses, and the beautiful photography of amateurs. It was the day it was to be sent to the publisher when the Lord spoke to her heart and told her that the book wasn't finished yet, that she needed to include the part of her life from which this whole book would be more clearly understood and received. It was His project, His book, so it must be included. Turned out to be the easiest portion to write, at least as far as the mechanics.

We sat there at breakfast, and with equal parts hesitation and determination, proceeded to tell us her story. Her brother had a friend who offered to give her a ride home. He dropped off the other person, then drove her into the country and raped her. She didn't tell anyone because she was a nobody, and he was captain of the football team. She was only 16, and she didn't know how to tell her parents. She didn't know how to tell anyone. Everything she felt was a gobbledy gook of she didn't even know what.

She dove into drugs and alcohol to try to silence the demons and simply cope with an inner landscape that had been brutally bloodied and left to vultures. "I should be dead from all the things I've done. I remember roller skating backwards down a freeway on-ramp--at night." Like that wasn't eye-popping enough, another gal at the table starts laughing and nodding her head, clearing relating and saying, 'Uh huh! Uh huh! I'm with ya!"

The emails she's receiving from women whose lives have been shredded by this horrific violence are pouring in and confirming that God knew what He was doing. Without that background in the book, these readers wouldn't have been able to relate like they can now--and perhaps move toward the healing they so desperately are looking for. And even readers who haven't been through what she has can see the tremendous power and grace of God moving along with her on the road to "peace and purpose."

We were total strangers 12 hours earlier. She was amazed too. She shook her head and said, "I had no intention of telling that story this weekend. I've only told this out loud one other time." It's easier to confide in strangers though, don't you think? I don't know that she'll ever see us again. Very present, however, was that inward knowledge that we are siblings, sisters who hadn't met yet.

I did ask if she brought her book with her, but she said no. She gave me a bookmark and wrote down the website. I checked it out when I got home, and I couldn't believe how expensive it is for a paperback, $30+... Maybe I'll see if the library can get it. I'm just glad to have met this remarkable woman whose spirit was absolutely charming. She has that childlike quality tempered by a season in the crucible, ultimately a beautiful work of art in the Potter's hands.

such life

There is so much LIFE out there. It screams, it whispers, it incites, questions, argues, and ruminates. How can we come up against something that is righthererightnowrightaway…..? It is a runaway train, a black hole, an enigma, an anomaly. It chest bumps the tried and tested; it slaps the rump of the familiar; it high fives the out-there. I cannot contain it.

I sound like someone on drugs. My mind races. There are pictures I want to capture in words, or if I cannot capture them, then at least reflect their measure. Will it still be truth if it’s just a fragment of how I can translate them? Doesn’t matter…. just try.

[“No try—only do.” ~Yoda]

I see my friend’s face. Life dances in her eyes. The rhythm of grace and joy reflect in her smile as she sees me. We hug and we are not two ones, but ONE. Everything we speak is Life and Love. I could stay there in that moment for as long as the snow falls, and it could cover us completely in its silence and beauty until we recognize only tranquility and space and communion as we were meant to know it. I see only her face and the multiplied meanings of her expressions. I am aware of her in her children’s’ faces and completely oblivious to my surroundings. It is only when I am back in the car that I am asked to recall anything of the building in which this all took place.

It is a tittle of the beauty, size, and usability of the meal hall proper. And yet my friend’s face far outshines the greatness of that facility. I am locked on to her and would not trade her joyful surprise for a hundred million gold bricks. Her smile is His. Her laugh is His. Her hug is His.

Thank You for this day. Thank You for the eternalness in the moments You forged frontward. They rise to the top like gold leaf. They shimmer and blaze in silent glory, like unto the sun… the Son… Oh yes, thank You. †