Regrets

I stood in front of the fireplace, a neatly folded piece of paper in my hand. It was a letter I wrote to my boyfriend Andrew my senior year of high school. What I had neatly penned in class was something I wished I had never had to write, and something that I hoped no one would ever read. To ensure this, I was going to burn it. If only throwing away this letter expressing my regret could do away with the memory forever, could change the fact that what I had to apologize for had happened. Just moments before I had found the letter on my dresser and read it, frowning at the contents. I wish that I could say what I had to say to Andrew nearly two years ago was not something that I still talk to him about today, that because of the regret I had then, that I have changed and have nothing to regret now. I wish. I wish that burning this evidence of my history would burn the history itself. But it doesn't. I opened the glass doors on the fireplace. I gently tossed the paper into the flames. It fell behind the grate of wood and was laying behind the fire, unharmed.I reached for the poker and stared into the fire.
My past, darkened by sins of all kinds, overshadowed by regrets, will not be burned. The choices I have made in the past 20 years of my life can not be undone, and the consequences are of the eternal sort. Granted, the stupid mistakes, the wrong pursuits, they have taught me many things, hard lessons. These lessons I don't regret, I just wish I had not been so hard headed, and that I could have learned without the pain. I stared anxiously into the fire. The paper had to burn. Being blackened by the smoke was not enough. It needed to be consumed, destroyed. Ashes. I opened the doors wider, preparing to shift the logs and stir the fire. Suddenly, flames leaped up, licking the back of the fireplace, consuming the neatly folded piece of paper. The orange glow of the flames satisfied me. I put down the poker.
I myself cannot undo what has been done. The fact is, what happened my senior year of high school can't be changed. It happened. What happened last summer can't be changed. I fear what other people think of me. I keep my sins to myself for fear of being judged, but how can I forget that the One great Judge is the One who was there watching when it happened. He knows my deepest darkest secrets. He sees all my sins. I worry about what other people think, what they would say if they read the note, if they knew all my sins... but I don't consider what the Omniscient, Omnipresent God of the universe knows and sees, and that is everything. I also tend to forget what He has done. The fire burns the paper, the paper acknowledging my regrets. The blood of Christ spilled out to cover them completely, and has left me white as snow. I can't change what I have done, but I have been forgiven. When God sees me, He doesn't see my regrets, my shames, my sin. He sees me through the blood of Christ.There is now no condemnation in Christ Jesus. Its only ashes.

Sleepless in Grand Rapids

Its 5. In the morning. And I have thought myself into a hole so deep that I can hardly escape.In my mind's eye, I glance back, trying to size up the distance I have come. I shudder. My stomach is twisted in knots, and I feel as if I am burning. I feel around me the tangle and oppression of the comforter and fleece. My breath is caught somewhere between my lungs and my lips. My mind flashes back to the man on tv, bloodied, gasping for air, staring death in the face. He cannot breathe either. Yet he is fictional. His death is not a reality. I contemplate hell, and its reality, and that is why my heart races, my stomach clenches, and my body burns.What if I am wrong? What if I think I have it and I don't? I plead with God. Comfort me. I can't bear the thought of 'getting it wrong'. I toss and turn. I push off the blankets. I stare at the ceiling fan. My soul cries out. I need His peace. I need His comfort. I haven't doubted like this since I was a new Christian. I know I don't have it wrong. Yet in this darkness, this heat, I can''t convince myself that my faith is enough. Of course it isn't. My faith didn't save me. He did.
A man who was bloodied. In all reality. In every since of the word reality. He is reality. And without His 'real death', His 'real resurrection' my reality is hell...
Praise God, that God gave Himself for me.I hold my laptop in my lap. I need to see His Words. His promise of salvation. I need the comfort of... His death. And His life. I read Ephesians one. I almost weep at the comfort of my predestination. The choice of God to save Sanyelle Lee Sandusky, and pardon her from eternal damnation. I do not have to worry about being eternally separated from the my God. He has made a way. I am out of the hole that I dug with my futile thinking. I am in the security of the seal of the Holy Ghost.
Even as I type this out, and see it in print, a little shudder runs through me. But my heart no longer pounds. I feel cooler, my breath is easy. My mind slows as I see the letters form words on the screen. My thoughts... They do not come easy from my racing mind to my painfully slow fingers. Its so hard to communicate my beleaguered thoughts, assaulted by doubts.
I know I am not alone in this. Tonight I fight alone, but I know there are others who wrestle in the same way. Take heart, He is true. His Holy Spirit is upon your soul, and you are eternally sealed to Him.

Revenge

Yesterday, I was watching the show, the Mentalist. I have not seen this show before coming home from break, but after watching it once, I was taken in by the main character, Patrick Jane. He is ‘the mentalist’ and uses mental persuasion to solve crime. After watching a few more episodes, I learned that Jane’s wife and child were brutally murdered by a suspect only known as ‘Red John’. In the particular episode that I was watching last night, Jane was solving a murder involving a group of men who owned land, and were being burned to death by an unknown arsonist. Together the group had murdered a man who stood between them and a very profitable piece of land. Jane fabricated a story of revenge in order to catch the person who was killing the first group of three men who had killed Dave Martin out of greed. I wish I could explain the plot better, but it is kind of irrelevant to what I am talking about, which is revenge in general. This first scene takes place after an initial questioning of one of the suspects who killed Dave Martin. The charming Jane Patrick is discussing using this suspect, Muchato, as ‘bait’ to catch the killer who is now trying to murder the new land owners. In speaking of Muchato he describes him as the ‘tethered goat’. Jane is talking to his partner.

Patrick Jane- “He’s not a goat, he’s ‘goatish’, he deserves to suffer a little.”
“Nobody deserves murder!”
P- “Muchato helped burn Dave Martin alive- out of greed.”
“Jane, we’re officers of the law-”
P-“You are. I don’t care about the law. I care about justice, and justice says that Muchato deserves to suffer.”
“That’s not justice, that’s vengeance.”
P- “What’s the difference?”As Patrick is about to leave his partners office he steps back in.
P- “We’ve never discussed this, I thought that it went without saying, but when I catch Red John, I’m going to cut him up and watch him die slowly, like he did with my wife and child. If you have a problem with that, we should talk.”
“Then lets talk. Because when we catch Red John, we are going to take him into custody and he will be tried in a court of law.”
P- “Not if I’m still breathing.”
“If you try and do violence to him, I will try to stop you. If you succeed in doing violence to him, I will arrest you.”
P- “I understand.”
“I hope you do.”

In the final scene, Patrick is talking to the daughter of one of the men who was killed, named Maddie. In a fit of rage, she claimed that she wanted the killer, Tommy, to burn the way her father did. Patrick tries to convince her otherwise.

P- “Your father killed a man, and Tommy killed him out of revenge. You know that right? Revenge is a poison. Revenge is for fools and bad men.”
Maddie- “I don’t care!”
P- “Yes, you do.”

After Patrick and his partner have left, his partner, who engaged him in the first conversation questioned whether Patrick had changed his mind about revenge.

“Revenge is for fools and bad men?”
P- “Its quite good, I thought. A load of nonsense, but good.”

This episode was very thought provoking to me. I began to question what I would do if someone was taken from me, or harmed, by a stranger, by someone who killed or hurt just for their own pleasure. How would I respond if I had a baby, a little child, and some sick person decided to take them from me so that they could have a thrill? Its not pleasant to think about, but unfortunately, it is not something that just happens on television shows. It is a reality for some people, a horrific nightmare come true. I would say that if I had a child and it was killed or kidnapped, that I would let the law take care of it. I can say that now, with little hesitation. I don’t think that I would have the nerve to do that now, to take another life. Perhaps in defense, if I had to defend myself or a child, but not after the fact. How different would it be though, if 10 years from now, I had a child that I would give my life for? If it wasn’t just a hypothetical situation, but a reality. I think that I might surprise myself.All of that is without considering what the Bible has to say. In the Old Testament, in the law, justice was delivered in the form of what we might consider revenge. If a person was caught in the act of murder, there was little that he could do in order to escape ‘justice’. He was in the hands of those who were offended. Only in a city of refuge could he obtain a proper trial. Yet, what about the New Testament? What about “Vengeance is mine, sayeth the Lord.” What about forgiveness? I would probably have to say that if we are controlled by the love of Christ that we would we try to suppress what our carnal nature would cry out, “Revenge, revenge!” Rather than plotting to ‘cut him up and watch him die slowly’, we would try to offer forgiveness and love. I think it is safe to say that if not wanting to kill someone who murdered a loved one, I would definitely struggle with hating the killer. Yet look at Steve Saint. His father was brutally murdered by the people he was trying to minister to. And the very man who murdered his father is now the man who travels with Steve. I think that is what Christ would love to see in believers who have been so tragically wronged. Granted, in Patrick’s case, if Red John is not repentant, if he continues to kill without mercy (which he does) then I would not suggest to Patrick to buddy up with Red John. But if Patrick was a believer, controlled by the love of Christ, then he should seek to love and forgive Red John, and be content with what the law can provide of justice. To me it is the fall that even sparks this instinct in us to kill those who kill. It is the fall that would even move a person to take another human’s life. It is only because of the fall that people enjoy murder, enjoy rape, enjoy abuse. It is unfortunate to me that we go to movies and we enjoy films like Saw that are saturated in senseless violence. It is unfortunate that we enjoy violent video games. It does give me hope for the future, for a new earth, and a redemption of all mankind. There will be no need for vengeance, there will only be peace, and the ultimate justice.

Constellations in the Sky[scrapers]

I lay on my back and hold my breath. The night sky above me is far more beautiful than I had ever seen it before. The small window opening up to the universe was surrounded by trees, fringing the edge of my vision. The music of crickets and other nocturnal creatures whispered sweetly in the background of my enraptured mind. The group that I was with was praying aloud. How could I close my eyes? I didn't even want to blink. Silently, to myself, I fervently prayed, "Just one shooting star, God. I need to know that You really are there..." My heart was pounding with expectation. I had never seen a falling star before, and it seemed that confidence in my faith rested in the glimmer of a falling piece of rock in the dark night, light years away. I was young and naive, and like Gideon, I was putting my fleece out. Doubts, the arsenal of the enemy, had riddled my weak faith. This seemed like the perfect time and way for God to remind me that He was really there, that He cared. I was a star-struck thirteen year old, and He who I was fawning over wasn't on the cover of the latest Seventeen. I stared so intently at the stars that I could have probably willed one of them to break loose from its black felt background and crash through the atmosphere. In a split seconds my hopes were fulfilled as a bright light blazed a path through the sky and vanished in the beat of a heart. I thanked God, and closed my eyes. I felt the grass beneath me and the openness of something greater than me above. I felt so incredibly small, and at the same time I felt that I was a part of something so grand and marvelous that in being swallowed up in the immensity of it, I was as high as the heavenly constellations and as far-reaching as the galaxy spilling over my head. I was alive, and I found that life in Him.Fast forward seven years. I lay in my bed, looking out my window on the seventh floor. I can't even see the sky. The skyscrapers and high rises overlap, creating an impregnable wall between my eyes and the great beauty of the sky beyond. Yet, had I been able to see the sky, the unmeasurable amount of light radiating from Chicago would have dimmed the glory of the millions of starts and would leave only six or seven visible to my naked eye. In exchange for the brilliance of the constellations, I had the patterns of lights that consistently burned through the night in the city. The flickering of television screens through the windows of neighboring condominiums replaced my favorite star that flickered different colors. The halo of light that wrapped the top of the Hancock tower now dominated the lights of windows like the moon outshone the stars. I felt far removed from the natural beauty of God's creation, and felt suffocated from the fabricated galaxy that glared at me from my window. Instead of trees filled with sleeping birds, owls, and bats, a billboard advertising for Office Supply towers outside my window, with large fake crows, seagulls, and pigeons attached on top. I don't hear the chilling howl of coyotes, but the blaring of horns and the screeching of tires. I sigh, and continue to stare out my window. He feels so far away. He will woo me another way...

A Shadow of Life on the Shore

I sit in the wet sand and look out across the lake. The water in front of me is grey, but on the horizon an almost dark green. The sky above is filled with a tangle of clouds in varying degrees of darkness. Behind them is the sky, with a tinge of pink from the setting sun. Rain falls on my bare arms and head. A warm breeze wraps itself around me. I feel peaceful on the outside, but there is no peace within me. A good ways out into the lake, up the shore from me, is a lighthouse of sorts. Its flashing lights flicker from red to green. It is steadfast and secure on the rocks that protrude into the lake. Between the shore where I sit and the rocky outcrop, the water tosses back in forth in a feeble attempt at waves. Beyond the rocks and lighthouse, the choppy water creates an ever shifting horizon. My soul is like the steely waters, restless and ambivalent. That point of security, the one thing on the horizon that isn't shifting and ebbing and flowing is the One who can cause my soul to be still. But there is so much water between Him and myself... A seagull hovers above the water, flapping its wings in earnest to stay in place, peering into the water that shudders in the wind. The bird gains altitude and then dives into the water, sending spray into the air. It resurfaces a moment later, perhaps with a prize from the toiling lake. I wish that I could be still. I wish that the waters of my soul weren't in such turmoil, that my thoughts wouldn't oppose one another and that my whole self could be of one accord. I wish that I could find peace and security and identity in my Rock and my Salvation. Instead I see Him as silent and foreboding, aware of my troubles, but not willing to offer any help. He is a silent watchman, standing by to let me choke on the water around me rather than to shine His light and expose a way out. I, unlike this lake, am not at the mercy of the wind. I can choose to still myself and instead of subjecting myself to the fickle desires of the circulating air, I can willfully look to the Rock and allow His presence in itself be enough to quiet my waters. If I patiently look for His light and allow His way to be better than my own treacherous way, then I am not drowning. I have to submit myself to an unconventional path. I rest here on the shore, content in my half-lived life rather than facing the unknown and setting my eyes on the rock, ready to plunge into His depths without inhibition. The bottom line is this: I live my life in fear of what God wants for me. I have created for myself a place of security, at the cost of having a life lived to the fullest. Living life to the fullest means giving up comfort. It means that life is found in losing it. This paradox will always be a hard one to grasp . I dabble in God's 'waters'. I wade out until I get too cold, or afraid of what lays in the deeper waters. Then I turn and walk back to the shore. Then I wonder why the storms of life shake me to my core. Its because I haven't given myself over to the wildness of God and His ways. I am not centered on His rock. I live with Him in sight, but not in His presence. And until I take the plunge and surrender to what feels like the terrifying unknown and allow Him to be the rock that I can hold fast to, then I will live a shadow of life on the shore.

First taste of love, bittersweet, green on the vine, like strawberry wine

I love Chicago, but leaving the dirty, noisy city behind for the country is like taking a breath of fresh air after being stuck in a stuffy room for far too long. I was born and raised in a small town, and spent my last summer in an even smaller town. I spent the past day enjoying the country once more, and all of the beauty of open skies and rolling fields. It is more than just appreciating the beauty of the country and the absence of man made structures, but it is more about the memories I have of winding back roads and endless stretches of railroad tracks that are far less traveled than the El and subway. Driving on roads that I know better than any other, that have memories of summer nights with the windows rolled down and someone’s hand in mine is such a refreshing feeling to me. Driving past houses that I have visited and front porches populated with families and elderly couples is therapeutic after suffocating in a city where concrete buildings create formidable walls. There is nothing quite like a brilliant sunset illuminating fields of golden flowers and maple trees in early bloom. There is nothing like being able to see for miles over flat land dotted with trees and farms. There is nothing like seeing a horse grazing lethargically in a pasture or racing through a field with its neck gracefully arched and its mane streaming behind it. As I arrive in Ladoga, my mind is filled with bittersweet memories. It has been almost one year since…
I see the ball diamonds filled with young kids and their parents and my mind races back first to my past summer, and countless summers before. Summers of sitting on the front porch with Grandma and Grandpa slurping Root Beer flavored shaved ice. Summers spent on the play ground, or in the gulley catching frogs while Grandma fretted on the front porch, concerned about Aaron and I falling in the water. Summers spent eating a hamburger after playing ring toss at the fish fry, enamored with the pony in the little corral, begging daddy to let me ride it- just once. Summers of fireworks over the elementary school with the curiosity of what would happen if the sparks started a fire. Summers of Boy Meets World while sitting on the couch munching Hot Fries or Zebra cakes, or whatever else Grandma and Grandpa had provided to spoil me rotten with. A summer being foolish and frenzied with love, throwing caution to the wind and making mistakes I regret to this day. A summer of walks down the railroad track and over the bridge, enjoying the summer sun, wildflowers, and the creek winding sluggishly through the woods. A summer of writing from the window of my bedroom, wishing for innocence and simplicity again. A summer of getting home late from work, enjoying the smell of the country with my windows rolled down and a carton of my favorite ice cream and a bottle of sweet tea in the passenger seat. His black Rodeo rumbled deeply, sounding more like a tractor than a car, with one headlight illuminating the road ahead of me. I would turn off the headlights and creep down the county road mesmerized by the lightning bugs flashing around me by the hundreds. If I had known that it was going to be our last summer together, I wonder if I would have done things differently. Would I have kissed him with more passion knowing that it would come to an end, or would I have held back and let the passion melt away like the shaved ice? Would I have held his hand more tightly, or let him slip away? That summer taught me so much and left me with only one regret… Even now the memories leave a dull ache in my stomach and my eyes wet. Yet I can smile knowing that I have learned and grown more from this past summer, from all of my summers. So when I drive through Ladoga and see a couple hand and hand strolling down the street I remember with a small smile and a sense of longing what it was to have him venture into someone’s yard for a flower to add to my bouquet. I can smile at the thought of swinging on the swings together laughing like small children rather than young adults with the future staring them down holding promise and doubt.

A Rooftop Encounter of the Most Electric Kind

I sit in bed, savoring the last twelve minutes before work, with thoughts of the Papal Schism and the Gutenberg press in the back of my mind. I hear the sound of tires on wet pavement and the thunder rolling in the distance. Out of the corner of my eye, I see bright flashes on the horizon. My hair is wet and sticking to my face and rainwater drips from the wavy strands to my arm. I glance up at the sound of thunder crashing. I sigh deeply and contentedly. I just got back from standing on the roof with my friends, watching God in all of His glory sear the skies with His power and glory. Every strike of lightning lights up my eyes and stirs something within my soul. I relish the rain on my skin and the wind buffeting around me. My heart thrills as lightning lashes out against the Sears Tower and leaves me pleading with God for just one more display of His might. I tremble slightly in the cold and ponder the chances of lightning striking...me. This is God's wildness. This is what I love and enjoy about serving the God of the universe, that He thinks to bless me with His nature, on a night when I need it most, when I hunger for His creation and feel disconnected in the city. This His wildness that I so desire.