Empty

I’m not sure what’s wrong with me. Maybe it’s all psychological. I’ll be honest—I’m just empty. I’ve run out of steam. I feel like I push myself hard for work, for family, for friends, for everyone and everything. It is rewarding in its own right, but what I’ve failed with is finding a balance in life where I can chase after the things that make me “me.”

We are all under the same plague. You have no more hours in a day than I have. But somehow, I have felt those hours slipping—wasting—away from me, precious moments that cannot be recaptured, opportunities unpursued. I have lost something crucial to myself, and I am struggling to find it again. I am praying about it more than I want—it’s difficult to admit (yes, even to my Creator) that I care so much about this, about my life. I like to fancy myself self-less and unconcerned about self’s pursuit. Yet, I remain—aching for time and space to enjoy and to become the person God created me to be. I feel so foreign to myself! It’s not supposed to be this way.

So I return to the basics, the things I need: Music. Writing. Study.

I have to make time for these things in my life. I feel good when I do. I feel rotten when I don’t. It’s as simple as that.

So today, I return to Komae. Someday, I promise you, I will finish this story. It’s just as much about my own Becoming, apparently, as it is about the characters’.

A Story About A Girl: A Random Sunday Memories Event

Grab your popcorn! Get comfy on the sofa!

Just kidding, it’s not that exciting.

I haven’t been blogging my Sunday Memories this year, mainly because the prompts focused on some specific parts of our family which I felt were best kept separate from the great big interwebs. Being my birthday last Sunday, however, the prompt was to write about, well, myself, which I found incredibly difficult. Here’s what I came up with.

There’s an awkward moment when folks find out that I’m trying to write a novel. They ask, “What’s it about?” What’s it about, indeed! Experienced writers encourage amateurs like me to come up with a one or two sentence summary of our plot and memorize it so we’re prepared to answer this question. Of course, breaking a story down into one or two sentences is no easy task. So far, this is what I have:

It’s a story about a girl…

Pretty lame, eh? I’m just not sure how to summarize what’s happening in my story. I don’t know which morsels to reveal to try and interest people; I don’t know which secrets to hide so I don’t give everything away. All I know to say is that it’s a story about a girl.

I feel a very similar awkwardness when people ask me about myself. I could tell you a lot of things about myself, and it would never tell you who I am or what I am passionate about. So far, the only thing I know to say about my life is that “it’s a story about a girl,” and I’m that girl.

But there is one word that describes me well, I think: Longing. I am longing. I am always longing for something: Christmas, music, time to write, to speak with someone, to walk around the island, to finish a novel, to travel, to study, to read more books. I am constantly longing.

I think it comes across as unhappiness, sometimes. It’s not. It’s just a recognition within myself that I am not finished yet. A.W. Tozer talks about Christianity, and this strange phenomenon we see, where our expectation is that we make a decision to follow Christ, and suddenly everything in life falls into place. We are happy, we have clear direction, we have impeccable morals, we are faithful to our churches and to each other, we stop sinning, we stop even wanting to sin, we stop looking for fulfillment in other areas of our lives.

The truth is, it is right for a Christian to long for Christ. It is right that we should desire His presence in Eternity. It is right that we should feel a bit unsatisfied with this world.While He is the Giver of “every good and perfect gift,” that He blesses us with mercies that are “new every morning,” we also stand in an awkward awareness that no blessing on this earth can compare to the fullness and joy of being united with Christ. Our hope is not merely for an easy go of this life, but of the life eternal—which is what we were destined for.

I’ve heard it said also (by C.S. Lewis, I believe) that “You don’t have a soul. You are a soul. You have a body.”We think that this life is what it’s all about, but it’s really just the pre-game event. What we are created for, what we are being refined for, is to dwell in the presence of God Almighty for eternity—to live in rightness, to live in wholeness, to live in worship, to live in communion with Christ and with His Body.

It is right that we should long for that.

It is right that we should long for those things that make us more into His likeness.

It is right that we should feel a bit unfulfilled and unsatisfied in this world—it is that grace that keeps us seeking hard after Christ, reminding us how small our brains are, how little we actually know Him. He is, after all, beyond our comprehension. Or, as the Proverb says (chapter 25, verse 2),

“It is the glory of God to conceal a matter; to search out a matter is the glory of kings.”

So that’s me. That’s Sarah. It’s a story about a girl. Longing.

Forget About It

Forget it. Just forget it.

We forget so many important things. We forget the name of the person we just met. We forget where we left our keys. We forget what day the rent comes out of our checking account. We forget whether we’ve had a tetanus booster recently (though I always seem to remember having it more recently than I actually have). We forget birthdays, anniversaries, special occasions. We forget to write letters. We forget to put a check in the mail. We forget to pull our clothes out of the dryer, and then they get all wrinkled. We forget (admit it, you’ve done it) to brush our teeth before bed. We forget to put on deodorant. We forget to pray before meals. We forget to say ‘please’ and ‘thank you’. We forget our cell phone numbers. We forget to reply to that text we received when we were at work. We forget whether Kathryn Russell was our fourth or fifth grade teacher. We forget the exact wording of our favorite passage of scripture. We forget which Wesley was the hymnist. We forget how to drive in the snow. We forget to return library books. We forget to check the air in our tires. We forget, we forget, we forget.

We forget so many things. And yet, when it comes to the things we need to forget (more for our own sakes than anyone else’s), we can’t do it. We can’t forget the harsh word someone spoke to us forty years ago. We can’t forget how hard it was to grow up without one of our parents. We can’t forget the time someone stole from us–money, purity, time. We can’t forget the person who cuts us off in traffic or in line at W@lmart. We can’t forget that one time we lent money to someone and they never paid us back. We can’t forget when someone snaps at us, argues with us, or makes us feel insecure.

This is on my mind today because I am remembering a person and a situation that I honestly thought I’d let go of. So tonight, my prayer is that Christ would continue to recreate me into His likeness and character, that He would teach me to forgive, that He would teach me to forget.

Pax Christi.

My Heart?

Where’s my heart?

I don’t know. I honestly don’t know, folks. I feel so beaten down right now. Every time I think I am getting past the crap, a new wave of crap hits. I am tired. I am discouraged. But since I can make no sense of these battles individually (and it would be both inappropriate and inexcusable to discuss them in this public forum), I thought perhaps the best way to confess to them tonight would be to give you a list of words.You don’t have to understand what is going on with each of them as it pertains to my life (and you won’t…you’ll try, but you won’t). I simply ask you to pray. If you read this, pray. Ask God to meet me in these battles and speak truth and hope to my soul.

cake & family

adoption & abortion

strings & compassion

ishmael & elsie

piper & camels

dew & rhyme

lump & pain

honesty, honesty, honesty

silence

love

and insignificance

How did you get here?

How did you get here?

The weekend that my Uncle Wayne passed away, Mom and I had been to Lower Michigan to brother my visit, Jeremiah. It is always so much fun to spend time with him. He is the most laid back, easy to hang out with person I’ve ever known. Truly, I like him a  whole lot (I would like him even if he weren’t my brother–and that is saying a lot). He doesn’t realize it, but he blesses me so much. I have very unique relationships with each of my siblings (as each of them are, indeed, unique!), but Jeremiah really connects to my geeky-genealogy side in a way that my other siblings don’t. I mean, they are all interested in the family history, and they all encourage me in that pursuit, but Jeremiah gets involved in it with me. It’s a lot of fun to have him (and Mom) to get into the nitty gritty stuff with.

During our short visit, Jer took us to a blast from our childhood: East Jordan. Listen, if you don’t know where East Jordan is, don’t feel bad–I don’t really know, either. You just drive and drive and drive…and then you DON’T BLINK. I digress. On our way, Jer showed us the corner where Grandpa’s brother, George, was killed in a car wreck when he was young (my dad’s sister, Aunt Georgeine, was named after him). Though I don’t know the story well, and I never knew my Great Uncle George, it was moving to see the place where he died. I know I’ve seen it before. For some reason, I remember Dad showing me once–but I can’t remember when I would’ve been driving there with Dad.

Aunt Millie, my Grandpa’s only living sibling, still lives in that house in East Jordan where we used to visit as children. Honestly?–her house looked vaguely familiar, but it was the nearby playground that I remembered. We must have walked there from her house to play. We didn’t visit with Aunt Millie, because I am not a fan of popping in unannounced–even though I know she would’ve welcomed us (Aunt Millie was always a favorite of ours). Next time, we will visit and listen to her tell stories. I can’t wait!

But the really moving part of the journey was our visit to Sunset Hill Cemetery. Now, I knew that Uncle George was buried there, along with his parents–my great-Grandparents, Fred and Lillian. Seeing their graves was emotional enough. I know very little about these people. I wish, so much, that I had asked my grandpa about them before he died.

Jeremiah had mentioned that there were a few other Moore’s hanging out at Sunset Hill, so he drove the truck to the other side of the lawn and I walked over to meet him and see if it was anyone we knew. What we found there left me speechless for several minutes. It was Fred’s father, my great-great-grandfather, Thomas Moore, who had come to the United States from Canada as a child. Buried near him is his wife, Ellen [Parker Green] Moore, and between them is their daughter-in-law, Beryl (who married Fred’s brother).

Jeremiah asked me who they were, and I told him all I could remember–which was (embarrassingly) not much. For a moment, all I could recollect of Thomas was that he’d been a mail carrier. But if we’d stood there all day, I would not have recollected much more. The truth is, I just don’t know these people. I don’t know their stories. I don’t know anything about them.

And that, more than anything, breaks my heart. I know, as a searcher of family history, I have to accept my fate: I know that I will never get to the root of each family line; I know that there will always be elusive and mysterious stories; I know that there will always be people I can’t find.

But I don’t want it to be Thomas and Ellen. It can’t be Thomas and Ellen.

As Jeremiah removed to the truck, I stood there at Tom’s grave, trying not to cry, but it just overwhelmed me. This man was my immigrant ancestor, and all I knew about him was that he carried mail–which is more than most of the family knows, I dare say. Still, it is not enough. I heard myself asking him, “How did you get here?” And then I was praying. Or talking. Or wishing. I’m not sure, really. Maybe it started as a prayer but grew into a promise. I promised Thomas that I would not let his name be forgotten, that I would search and I would find him.

If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that we–as a culture–are forgetful. We don’t remember one another as we should. We don’t remember our heritage as we should. We don’t remember how we came to be here. And if we don’t know where we’ve come from or how we’ve come, how can we know where we’re going?

Pax.

semmie.

 

Adam Lay Ybounden

Have you heard this song? Oh…my goodness. Listen to it before you read my post. Please.

Our Fearless Leader sprang this song on us at choir rehearsal last night. I regret to tell you that the experience sent me into a fit of laughter. I thought I would never make it through the song. How embarrassing! It’s also distracting, I know. The last thing the choir needs is someone who can’t stay focused when we’re learning a new piece. But seriously–this piece is ridiculous. Maybe it was just a crazy end to a crazy Monday (after all, I did field several insane phone calls at work yesterday [seriously, I'm going to start keeping tabs to see which question gets the most phone calls--the cheese or the sinus infection]). I digress. I felt terrible, but the song just struck me with the ridiculous stick, and I feel my only recompense is to list the ridiculousness here on my blog. These are the things that kept me in stitches.

• Ybounden is a ridiculous word. Seriously. Ybounden? Okay. 15th century English, I get it. Still. Ridiculous.
• Adam lay ybounden, bounden in a bond. Really? Bounden in a bond? Is that how one is bound–with a bond? Brilliant!
• Four thousand winter thought he not too long. What? That doesn’t even make sense to me. And of course, as our Resident Linguist explained, it makes perfect sense because it’s a reference to the span of time between the Fall in Genesis and the Crucifixion. Okay, but…it doesn’t make sense to my speaking (and singing) parts. At all.
• As clerkes finden written in their-e book.I know the “e” belongs to “their,” but I have to tell you, my first thought was: “It was written in an e-book?!”
• Pulsing Light. Fearless Leader said the drone of this piece should feel like a pulsing light. I won’t tell you what Liesl said it sounded like; as for me, I thought it felt like a death march.
• F. F. F. F. E. D.; D. D. C. C. C.; F. F. F. E. D.; D. D. C. C. E.; etc ad nauseum.  Wow. I love being an alto, but I do grow weary of the F’s and E’s. There are a whole lot of them in an alto line.

All of this being stated, I have to confess to you that the most difficult pieces are those I end up falling in love with. I already love it more than I did last night. This song is not at all ill-written; quite the contrary, it is an astounding piece. Its difficulty is what will leave the audience with goosebumps, if we do it well. I hope we will do it justice! Skempton’s work is impeccable.

I must close, but I need to add that, upon further reflection, I think the death march feeling is effective. We are, after all (I think) talking about the Fall of Man, the Curse, Death. The unsettling nature of the piece (lyrically and musically) suddenly makes sense to me in light of the beautiful resolution (again, lyrically and musically): Deo gratias!

It’s quite theological (aside from the e-book, of course).

Yes, folks…I may just learn to like this one.

Deo gratias!

How to Peel Potatoes

How to Peel Potatoes

AKA: Where’s My Heart? Sunday, September 23, 2012.

Where is my heart today, folks? My heart is a million places.

• My heart is in Florida. She is struggling with not being able to wrap her arms around her cousin and mourn with her. Much of the family will gather next summer to memorialize my dear Uncle Wayne, and I know it will be much-needed closure. Still, my heart wishes I were with Cindy.
• My heart is in the yard. There is much to do before the weather gets much cooler.
• My heart is with my family. There is so much turmoil right now. Or maybe I perceive it as turmoil. I don’t know. All I know is, I see such a need for Christ, more and more, in all our lives. We mistakenly think that once we enter into a relationship with Him, once we know His grace and mercy in our lives, we stop needing Him. Our brains know that we still need Him, but we act as if we don’t. We act as if we are okay when many times we are falling apart. The good news is, if we are honest about our fears and our struggles and the storms that are raging, then Christ is faithful and will speak those words we cling to: Peace, be still. We need some of that, all over again.
• My heart is in my home. I made potato soup today, which turned out remarkably well (I thought). I tried to keep it close to my mom’s recipe when we were kids, but I had to change one or two things. Still, I think it honored her recipe. But I can’t tell you what secret ingredient I used…
• My heart is in words. I am incredibly behind in my writing. I have letters swirling about in my head, trying to find words, and I’ve neglected them. If you’re one of the letter-recipients, I apologize. I’ll get there. Soon. I promise.
• My heart is at Choir rehearsal. I know it’s not until tomorrow night. I know I’m a dork. I just…love singing with the Choir. So much. Floyd is an incredible director, and the music we’re doing is both beautiful and challenging.  I’ve already had several moments of feeling like the new music is going to be the end of me–which is a good sign. Those are the best pieces (Zadok proved that: ha…ah…ah…ah…ah…AGH!).
• My heart is lonely. It’s hard to explain. I won’t try.
• My heart is enraptured by the love of my uncles. I am so excited for my Hobbit-date with Uncle Bub! Could a girl be any luckier?
• My heart is in a Healer’s cabin, learning to peel potatoes with a young girl from New Praet. She needs more time, and I am rethinking whether the Old Wick knows she is there. He’s a Prophet, so you’d think he would, right…?
• My heart is wondering how a Prophet feels and behaves when his prophecies fall empty. How does he redeem his prophetic voice? Does he question himself? His god? My heart is stuck there. Peeling potatoes.
• My heart is bedding down for the cool season. I’m ready to read some books, bake some cookies, stitch some journals, and enjoy the quiet.
• My heart is with Bilbo. Riddles in the dark.

What about you, folks? Where is your heart?