Paradox

     The trees screamed at me from across the road. The wind soared high up, so that hardly a breath swept over my face. The brown leaves were crashing and swaying like dull bells. I wanted to be up in the clouds, but I feared them. I crossed the road and climbed the ridge, high up with the wind and the trees, with these thoughts in my head:
     This night is a paradox that I have to hold in my hands. God is so close, the divine is breathing on my neck with the wind. I am thinking of how we humanity have twisted humanity. I am thinking, "man, hold to untwisted humanity, for it is the only reception of your salvation."
     I am overwhelmed with my sin. I can no longer bear my twisted soul. Should He not carry me away to the cold clouds with the dead leaves? And leave my empty body to be found by next year's campfire. I see a light, a strength to which I can cling. I am a woman, created by God, human. I have only this excuse, I am imperfect, to offer up as a basket to receive the salvation that floats down, clothed in grace. There is no other reason for this mercy but that I need it, and He wants to give it. I hold in my hands the poorest and best excuse ever known. My deep inadequacy is all that holds Him to His promise of grace.
     I will praise His name, for I am not an angel perfect, or a goddess that cannot fail. I am the nature of failure, and none could need Him more than I. So I, woman, will cling to my humanity with all that I have, and be made straight by His coming.
     This windy night named Hector has perhaps opened a view of the pleasure and thought of God at the creation of man. This paradox is of needing because of it and having fulfillment only because of need. I cry with Paul that we do not sin that grace may more abound, but we rejoice at the abounding of the precious grace. As an unfailing goddess, how could I know my Lord until I needed Him more than breath and warmth? The wind plucked at me, and I felt wide and narrow, strong and weak. Strong because His grace is stronger than the bent in my soul. He comes to straighten, not to break.
     I would rather be straightened than left with riches. I would rather be straightened than live as I am. I would rather be straightened than breathe the too fast air on the ridge. God, straighten me. I would not be perfect unless you made me so.
     These thoughts are still in my head many days later. Other thoughts join them, of desire and fulfillment, and how something can seem utterly important and unimportant at once. Paradoxes that pull my mind through stuffy clouds and fearsome forests. But I know the Divine Perfection that walks with me, and I am not afraid of the paradoxes.

Posh

     Jonas leaned on his hands, looking all around him. He was on the top of a grassy hill. In the direction the boys had rolled, he could see a valley spread over with pink and green and blue houses, all pale, like a faded rainbow. Little tiny people walked in the streets, and he wasn’t sure if they seemed smaller because he was so far away, or because they really were little and tiny. To the right and left, forest sprawled as far as he could see, or at least he thought it was forest. The trees were mostly blue, with white trunks, and some of them seemed to be floating. He rubbed his eyes, wondering if this was a dream. Ever since he’d waited for Sunny and saved her from Madame’s carriage, strange things had been happening. He wondered why he hadn’t thought of mother and Sunny very much, and if Madame had kidnapped him and he would see them again.

     Laughter came from behind him, sounding as if it had echoed from across the world and was only now arriving at his ears. He whirled around, looking over the flat, long top of the grassy hill. A tall person with bare arms was dancing and waving and shouting, but not at him.

     “I did it!” Jonas heard. It was Madame. She’s gone mad, right off her rocker. Jonas stepped backward and tripped over a stone hidden in the tall grass. He gave a little yell, and Madame became silent. The rock scraped his back, but he didn’t move, hoping she hadn’t seen him. “Boy,” she was calling. “You’re all right?” He still didn’t moved. Suddenly the grass rustle and parted, and she was there, closer than he’d thought she was. He stood up and moved away again, careful not to trip. “Are you?” she asked, her eyes bright.

     “I want to know where I am,” Jonas said, a bit more rudely than he would have if he had just met Madame. If she hadn’t dragged him through her house and into the yellow room, that is. Perhaps dragged wasn’t the word, but he hadn’t had much of a choice, had he?

     “The little people call it Posh, but they’re a bit silly. Its real name is Mina. We did it, boy, we did it!” she said, taking his shoulders and shaking him.

     “My name is Jonas,” he said crossly. He was beginning to miss his mother very much, and wished furiously that he were back beside the road, waiting.

     “Yes, yes, Jonas,” she said, staring over his head at the bright city. “This is all immaterial. You’re here, ready to fulfill your purpose.”

    “What is that?” he asked. “What is my purpose?” He repeated her words to keep himself from blubbing or something.

     “Your purpose?” she asked. Her face was far away among the tiny people, and she didn’t move her eyes to him.

     “You know it; I don’t,” he said, very shortly indeed. Now he was only afraid he was going to be too impolite to a lady and she would tell his mother. Madame suddenly looked very sad, and she sat right down, the grasses about her head.

     “My son is down in Poshland, and I can’t bring him out, because they don’t allow big people to enter their city,” she said. Jonas felt a lump in his throat, watching tears well in her eyes. “Do you see, dear boy?” She looked at him, then reached up and touched his hand. He sat down next to her, thinking she was a swell lady if she would only be like this always. “I couldn’t tell you I needed to take you out-of-world. Out of country is bad enough for many. I tried to keep you confused so you wouldn’t run away, not that I didn’t respect you, for you certainly have the right mind for this, and I even thought you would be a good companion for Dilly when he’s grown, for I know you would understand that there is more to life than earth, and won’t you go down and search for him, won’t you?” She took a very deep breath after all this, staring into his eyes. He looked over all her face, and at her hands, trying to make sure this wasn’t a trick, and he would be made into a ‘play’, or perhaps a slave condemned to forever repaint the entire city in different colors. He thought green would be nice, if that were the case. He still didn’t know what a play was, but he had the idea it was something like Mimi. He shuddered, and tried to bring his thoughts together.

     “How can I find him?” he asked, steepling his hands in his lap as father had done before he’d gone and died in the war. Silly man, thinking he could survive bullets and such. If Jonas had his way with it, everyone would share land, and live together, even your neighbors eyes were slanted or they were very tall or…Jonas shook his head, thinking something in the air was making him think too fast.

      “Check in the play-circus,” she said. “They thought he was a play, you see, and once they get those, they don’t like to let them go. I don’t think they hurt him, but if they treat him like the other plays, he’ll be teased something dreadful. What you have to do, is dye your hair blue, and act as if you’re a grown little. You’ll have lots of time before they figure it out. Come on,” she said, standing up quickly and walking down the hill in her bare feet. He hurried after her.

      “I didn’t say yes yet,” he said.

     “Why no, of course not,” she said, but she didn’t slow down. The steep hill didn’t bother her, and they were both soon at the bottom. “I’m only going to show you where to find the coco plant that will make your hair blue, should you decide to go and find Dilly.”

     The coco plant was on the edge of the strange woods, and its leaves were outrageously blue. She used the white petals in his hair, though, and told him he was very blue indeed. He was getting excited about seeing the colored city, and he didn’t pretend to not know what he would do anymore.

     “You can just walk right in,” she said, looking at his hair, and then at his pants. “Ask for a shirt at the circus. They won’t mind. They’ll like your pants, though. Don’t let them take them,” she said. He nodded, wondering how silly that would look, he walking around in his boxers, looking for a play named Dilly that perhaps didn’t want to leave with him, surrounded by real-blue hair and pretending to be a little, and it reminded him of the room of yarn at Madame’s house, because they’re hair was so bristly, and that reminded him of Sunny’s yellow dress that she sometimes wore, and then he knew that something was definitely silly-making about the air, because he was losing his edge. Madame led him along the blue and white forest and left him in sight of the first bright house, and she was already gone before he remembered to ask what Dilly looked like. He was tempted very much to explore that strange woods first, but he thought he would get lost, and how would he get back to earth then, and perhaps animals lived there, and would eat him, and he wished he could get some kind of mask to breathe through because it was getting very hard to think in this air. The city smelled like cotton candy, fresh made, still wisping off the stick.

The Doors are Gone

     “I am not mad, Jonas Barry,” she said, still staring forward. “I am only different.” She could have been laughing, but he didn’t want to assume. Assuming hadn’t helped in life thus far, for the first thirteen years. He was sure it wouldn’t help in the next thirteen.

     The room was absolutely square, more square than a room could usually be. Jonas looked hard at the walls, and had the feeling that this room was not part of Madame’s house. But how could that be? Such a thing was unexplainable. The walls were white, reflecting the yellow lights on the ceiling with intensity. Perhaps it was just the reflection that made the walls seem to shimmer, and move up and down. As if the perfectly square room were floating in the center of the house, a different kind of place than the other rooms. Jonas wondered, if Mimi, or one of the men with the names like his were standing outside the door, if they could see…

     Jonas’s mouth opened wide and he let out his lungs very quickly. Of course they couldn’t see, because the doors were gone. “Madame?” he asked, but he sounded like a thirteen year old boy that was scared to be left alone. He didn’t like that. Madame smiled and stepped close to him, putting her heavy arm around his shoulders. He was surprised that though her arm was slender, it was heavy.

     “It will be all right, dear boy. You’ll see your mother in one of these lives,” she said. That didn’t help him.

     “Where are the doors?” he asked. “I would like to leave.” The walls were smooth, shining, seemed to be made of light. A low hum was beginning, and rose to shimmer in his bones.

     “It’s too late, boy,” she said. Her face was no longer tender, but set, as if determined to do something. There was nothing in the room to do. “We’re going to be taken up. I need you to remove your shirt and shoes,” she said. Jonas only stared at her. She bent down and flipped off her boots. Jonas looked at her stockings, and his stomach began to squeeze tight. He thought of his mother, and wished she were on the other side of the light, waiting for him. The hum was very loud, and he gripped his head and tried to keep his thoughts in it. Madame leaned into his face and kicked at his feet, and he pulled off his shoes. The light was hot, and he followed her motion and pulled his shirt over his head. The heat came over his skin in waves, and he looked away from her bare, bony shoulders as she dropped her over dress to the floor. He stood up straight for a moment, but then a rushing whooshed past him and he crouched to the floor, afraid he would swept up and smashed against the wall.

     Roaring, roaring, roaring, all around him, pulling at his shoulders, his hair straight up, and then it was all gone.

     *

     “Oh my, Silla. What a funny play you have!”

     “It’s not my play. I only found it on the hill. I don’t know what to do with it. Should I touch it?”

     Jonas felt something flat rubbing his shoulder. His eyes were opened, and he felt as if he’d never closed them. He blinked to make sure he could. “Oh, I think the play is awake!” a little boy shout/whispered. Jonas rolled onto his back and looked up into the faces of two very small boys. He thought they were boys. Their hands hung at their sides, flat, with very short fingers at the edges of their wide palms. Their hair was bright blue, and standing up straight and bristly. Jonas stared at them, and his arms twitched without him telling them to. The boys scuttled back, their black eyes widening. “Oh, oh,” the one on the right said, putting his hand over his face. “Oh my, it really is quite a play, Silla.” Silla stepped close again, smiling and showing a mouth of sharp teeth.

     “Wake up, play. We’re ready for you,” he said.

     “I’m not a play,” Jonas said.

     “Waaah!” the one on the right said. “Don’t wake it, Silla. Put it back!”

     “I won’t hurt you,” Jonas said, sitting up. The blue haired boys ran backward, even Silla looking frightened. “Could you tell me where Madame is?”

     “Waaah!” they both screamed, turning and running with their paws over their faces. The hill Jonas was sprawled on was steep, but just when Jonas was worried that they were going to fall, they both made a little leap and tucked into balls and rolled off, disappearing into the orange sun-shadow below.

Need, Need, Need

The simplest things reach inside me and make me into something else. Pressure to say the right words, or perform in the best way possible. I only needed to encourage someone. Easy enough for me; I like seeing people perk up.
     This one wasn't a simple case. Pain was involved that I can only begin to grasp from afar. Frustration with God Himself, thoughts of punishment and self-pity. How could I help, I who's been given endless blessings, overflowing?
     I still don't know how to answer that, but I found out something else tonight. God feels our nerves and pain when things are hard, but He also likes it. It sounds weird and calloused, but it broke my heart when I thought it through. The hurt He shares with us is worth it, and doubled since His loved ones are hurting. Why is it worth it, and why does He love those moments of pain?
     If you're ready to burst with joy because everything in your life is going wonderfully, you overflow with praise for a while. But soon, you get used to the joy, and if given years of it, we would forget Him. I begin to forget Him after just a few days of perfect circumstances.
     When the pressure turns on, and I can't rely on myself, that's when I beg Him to come. Hard things, cruelty, abuse, stretching things, anger, deceit, hypocrisy from others...when these come, I need, need, NEED Him. I don't stop talking to Him. Nothing can tear my eyes from His face, because I can see the cliff I'll fall off if I do.
     I have a new perspective on hard things, now. I'm endlessly selfish, and this seems to be the only way to make me be who God made me to be. Utterly dependent. Nothing I can do on my own. It made me feel like an idiot that I need to go through hard things to be close to Him, but that's how it is. Not always. I just forget easily. I know God loves who I'm made to be after a changing experience, but He likes to see it happen, too.  The hard things don't seem so hard when they're nudging me toward the One I love the most.

Part Five: I am Not Mad

Jonas thought that he could go live in an ice cave like a hibernating bear after eating two plates of ham and potatoes, with rolls on the side. He didn’t think an ice cave would be pleasant; that’s only how he felt. When the giant clock across the room bonged 1:00, making Jonas choke on his water, Jones, James, and John stood as if they all shared two legs. They bowed toward Madame and strode through the door, one after another. Jonas watched them go, but he didn’t stop eating.
     “You might grow two inches after eating all that energy,” Madame said, sipping from a glass goblet. She had a tiny red smudge of jam on her lip.
     “At least three,” Jonas said, swallowing first. He looked at the smudge, but she only smirked and cut open another roll. “Could we talk about the family emergency now?”
     Madame let the roll rest between her teeth and narrowed her eyes. “Not yet,” she said, setting the bread back on the silver bread plate.
     “Could you give me an estimate of time that will-“
     “Talk like a normal boy, boy,” Madame said, pushing her chair back. “You can’t be older than ten. I want you to be an impressionable child, silenced by food and interesting sights. Can you do this?”
     Jonas blinked at her, and she beckoned him to follow. He slipped through the heavy door before it could close, afraid to be left in the room alone. The three men could come back, and do things eerily as one while he could only watch. He thought this as an excuse, to convince himself that interesting sights and food hadn’t distracted him from his goal. Madame was striding down the hall with great strides, and he had to run to catch her.
     “You’ve eaten, and you’ve proven your intelligence,” Madame bellowed. “Follow me, follow me.” Jonas looked behind him before he obeyed, wondering if the dolls would be better than a woman who was proving her insanity every moment. He wished fervently to be outside his gate, waiting. This didn’t feel like waiting, not with all the hustle and curtains and rooms they were passing through. Madame’s shoes clicked down stairs, and Jonas descended into the dark. The dolls and the three men seemed far away, and when his fingers brushed fur in his haste to find Madame, he gasped. “Follow, follow, boy,” Madame whispered from far ahead. Jonas jerked his hand away from the cold hair and ran. A door rattled open, and light streamed into the cold hall. He couldn’t stop himself from looking back, and he saw pacing yellow eyes before the door rattled shut again. “Don’t be so slow,” Madame hissed, halfway across the bright room. Jonas peered around, disgruntled.
     “You’ve eaten, and you haven’t necessarily proven your intelligence, Madame,” Jonas said in a clear voice. Madame stopped, but didn’t turn back. Jonas put his hand over his mouth and watched her shoulders shake.
     “I am not mad, Jonas Barry,” she said, still staring forward. “I am only different.”

Again, Where is God?

     Sometimes I think of God as I do of the Earth. It's so big, I hardly know it's there. It's round, it's moving fast, but it's too big to see. Like Yankee Doodle, I can't see the city because there are so many houses.
     God is everywhere. Why do I beg Him to be present? When I'm scared, or depressed, or stressed, why is my prayer that He would be near me? I know that there is no place we can hide from Him. I give myself too much credit if I think I can sin enough to make Him leave, while His grace still continues for those on Earth. Across the sea, below the Earth, in the darkest part of a city, He is there. I don't always feel Him. It seems then that He has stepped away, waiting patiently until I cleaned the vomit from my chin and wash my hands with bleach. As if my sin could push Him around, tuck Him away until I straighten up.
     Not so, I am humiliated to realize. God is always there, so where does He go when we can't feel Him?
Stand in the middle of a field, under a tree. Stand in a garden, surrounded by waving corn. Stand on a road in North Dakota, with yellow growth spreading out as far as the Earth goes. Close your eyes.
     Everything is still there.
Your eyes stare at blackness, maybe with a red tint from the sunlight. Still air, and dirt beneath your shoes. Easy enough to say the tree is gone, the plants are gone, the yellow is gone, God is gone. But that is not truth. That is not supported by any fact. No evidence, only the feeling of a moment of blindness.
     When I want the glory of God in my church, my home, I'm going to ask for it differently. God's grace is so great that in the darkest of places, He is still there, watching us with pained love in His eyes. When our eyes are stretched open, and we see Him, we worship Him with all that we are, He is there. When our eyes are shut, or squinting open halfway, fluttering between vision and blindness, He is still there, waiting for us to look and see His beauty.
     It's comforting and solemnizing. God isn't one to know everything as He watches from a great tower of Heaven. He knows everything because He is there, inside the knowledge, watching it all unfold. I feel nothing but faith, at times, but I have that trust that He is all around me. I want those moments of blindness to be short, and I want to open my eyes even while my hands are still dirty. I can never get clean enough anyway. I shouldn't waste time waiting until I feel clean and then begging Him to come. Not when He's waiting there with His hands held out for me to take.
     Annie Dillard had a friend that was blind, and was healed of her blindness. The friend could not see in three dimensions. She had no concept of depth or distance. She saw things as patches of color, splotched across her eyes. Annie Dillard tried to imitate her friend, and managed to see the world as colors, not things, for just a moment. I've tried it many times, and I can only do it halfway.
     Envisioning God all around me, even as I sin and close my eyes to Him, brought Annie to my mind. God's omnipresence is difficult to comprehend. We have no examples of what it is like. I wonder if I look at the world as patches of color, with no depth or distance, nothing beyond what I've been told is there. I want to take the cap off everything, and let it spill over into the sky. God doesn't end. He is everywhere. I only have to open my eyes and see what He wants to show me.
     What a terrifying God. "Fearful in praises, doing wonders." The song of Moses, Exodus 15, is fascinating.     I beg Him to open my eyes to His presence, already here.

Names much like yours

   Jonas stepped backward and almost bumped into Madame.

     “I’m so sorry, Jonas,” she said. “Mimi! In the corner, I told you.” The doll was stiff, only three feet from Jonas. It blinked its eyes, big like owls’ eyes, and then spun back to where it had come. Its arms went down, straight at the elbows, and its eyes snapped shut. Jonas wondered if the doll was waiting, like he did.

     “Why do you have the skin of a mouse, Madame?” he asked, as a first question.

     Madame grinned. “I have many things, simply because I like them,” she said. She was wearing a bright blue suit, with short sleeves.

     “You like dolls,” he said. “How does Mimi move when you tell her to?”

     Madame strode across the carpet and pulled Mimi’s hair from her neck. “She’s a robot, see?” Jonas blinked at the wires that came from the back of Mimi’s head.

     “What’s a robot?” he asked. He was beginning to feel a little dizzy.

     Madame’s mouth drooped. “Never mind, Jonas. A machine, that’s all.”

     He nodded, disappointed that she couldn’t explain. His stomach rumbled.

     “Let’s go eat dinner, shall we?” Madame smiled again. He followed her through the fancy door.

     “Didn’t Lily tell you? Family emergency,” she said. “She won’t be back for a week.”

     “Why didn’t she wake me?” Jonas asked.

     “I don’t know, Jonas. Let’s not worry about it,” she said. “Dinner awaits.”

     Jonas wondered how dinner felt about waiting all the time, and wished there weren’t so many new things around him. It was clear that Madame was what Papa had used to call a ‘collector’. He saw a room full of jars, and another of brilliant yarn. They went down two flights of stairs, and Madame didn’t speak. Jonas wondered if Lily was still here. He looked behind him a lot, expecting Mimi to be following, blinking her dead eyes.

     He was relieved to see three men in the dining room. They had grey hair, and white skin, and their eyes were very dark. Jonas wasn’t relieved anymore when they all turned to him at the same time, and said ‘hello’, one after another, in the same voice. Wasn’t anything normal in Madame’s house? He bowed and said ‘hello’. Madame became very happy, and showed him to a seat across from the middle man.

     “How are you feeling, Jonas?” the middle man asked. “My name is Jones, much like yours.”

     “I am fine,” Jonas said, though he wanted to say that Jones wasn’t much like his name, and he wanted to see his mother, thank you.

     “Have you recovered fully, Jonas?” the man on the left asked. “My name is James, much like yours.” Jonas nodded and stared at him.

     “Are you well enough to eat, Jonas?” the man on the right asked. “My name is John, much like yours.”

     Jonas said, “Yes,” very shortly, and wanted to roll his eyes and stuff his mouth with the rolls that the maid was putting before him. The men watched him for a few minutes, and finally began to speak with Madame. He didn’t hear much of what they said, being concerned with the steaming ham that was on his plate.

Waiting: Part Four(the living doll)

Madame's presence seemed to linger by the bed, her fingers on the mattress. Jonas wanted to stay awake and watch the fish, but his eyes seemed to sneak closed.

     The sun was shining hot through the big window at the end of the blue room. Jonas blinked, and rolled away from the light. The bandages on his leg tugged, and he sat up.

     “Jonas,” the pretty lady said. She stood up from the chair by the window and walked to his side. “Ya ready ta get up?” she asked.

     “Where’s my Ma?” Jonas whispered. The pretty lady scrunched up her face.

     “She ain’t here,” she said. “Family emergency.” Jonas’s stomach curled up.

     “Emergency?” he asked.

     “’S what I said,” the pretty lady said. She fed him soup again, and left before he could ask any more questions. He wasn’t sleepy this time, though he almost wanted to close his eyes and wait until his mother came back and told him nothing was wrong. He swung his legs down and walked carefully to the door. He had a shirt and soft white shorts on, and the bandages stuck out as if his legs had teeth. It hurt a little, in a good way. He opened the door and stepped into the hall. He stood with his hands on the doorway for a long time, looking at what he saw.

     There were skins all along the wall. Directly across was a tiger skin with its mouth still open in a snarl. He saw a bear, a snake, a lion mane, and even a tiny mouse pelt. He walked to the left, wondering why anyone would skin a mouse, and whether they had eaten the meat, because he would like to try mouse someday. It would surely be more interesting than chicken.

     He checked the rooms beside his, and didn’t find his Ma. Both of them were pink, so that it hurt his eyes, and the walls were soft like petals. After the three doors, counting his, there was a long hallway with no openings. Finally, when the tiger skin was almost out of sight, he found a huge door with stained glass windows on the sides. He felt as if he were entering a fancy front door, and looked for a doorbell. There wasn’t any, and he turned the knob. It swung open without noise, and he stood staring again. There were dolls, dolls on shelves, dolls on the floor, boy dolls, girl dolls, stuffed cat dolls, corn husk dolls, and one big one in particular that was walking toward him.

    Wait and Tremble: Part Three (Madame's House)

    “Not so blasted fast!” Madame screeched. Jonas looked at her stern grey hair, and wondered how Archie had the nerve to pretend he didn’t hear her. Her lips were tight, but her fingers flew over the yarn in her lap. Jonas watched Ma watching her. The yarn was red, like a cherry sucker. Jonas wondered if she was making something for a little boy to wear, or if she would only drop the piece in a dusty corner of her house. It seemed to help her with the stress of Archie’s driving. Madame glanced down and caught them watching. Jonas jerked his neck and looked out the window, but the jostling trees only made his legs hurt more. Madame used up the little ball of yarn she had before they came to a breathless halt before a tall house. Jonas looked at the old trees in the yard as Archie carried him in, trying not to whimper when his legs were moved.

     “It’s all right, Jonas,” Ma said. Her face was white. Jonas wished she would suck the red out of the yarn into her cheeks. He was afraid that she would be sick, or cry. He didn’t know what to do when she cried. He was remembering the last time she cried when the old trees grew dizzy and faded.

     “He’s a strong lad,” someone said loudly. “He’s got good bones in him.” Jonas squinted up through bright light into a bearded face. Ma was holding his hand, less pale now. The bearded man showed his teeth and patted Jonas’s head, then walked out. Jonas looked for Madame. He was in blue room, with fish painted on the walls.

     “Are you all right, Ma?” he asked. Ma jumped and jerked her eyes from the door.

     “Me?” she asked. “I’m not the one run over by horses, young man. How do you feel?”

     “I wasn’t really run over, Ma. Just kicked a good bit,” Jonas said, trying to move his legs. They were sore and bandaged, but they moved just fine.

     “Hush,” she said, smoothing his hair to the side of his forehead. “Rest now. I’ll take you home as soon as you’re well.” Jonas nodded, but he wanted to say that he didn’t want to go just yet. This room with the fish was more interesting than where he slept at home. He had a warm feeling that Madame had books and sailboats, and perhaps a pond to play in. He wouldn’t need to wait, here. He could read, and ask Madame questions. He was hearing his first question in his head, about the yarn, and then his eyes were so heavy.

***

      Jonas opened his eyes and shrank back. A very pretty lady was leaning on the table next to his bed, staring at him. The corner of her mouth curled when she saw his open eyes.

     “Bout time, sonny boy. I’ve been a-waitin’ for much too long,” she said. Her bottom lip pouted, and Jonas felt sorry for making her wait, though he knew all about waiting. He blinked, and let her help him sit up. “Soup,” she said, cupping his chin and holding a spoon full of yellow cream. Jonas opened and swallowed. His stomach grumbled as the first drops fell down his throat. She fed him almost faster than he could swallow, and he had the feeling of running a race when she finally scraped the bowl clean. She patted his head, and he said ‘thank you’, very quietly.

     “Doctor’ll be in, then Madame wants ta see you,” she said. She snatched the bowl and spoon and marched out. Jonas pulled down the cover and looked at his legs. They were stiff, but not as sore as they had been. The bearded man came in and poked about his legs, then took off the white wrapping and replaced it. Jonas tried not to look at the scrapes, but then he realized that it didn’t make him feel sick. The doctor bared his teeth at him, but only after the door clicked shut did Jonas realize that that was supposed to be a smile.

     “You’re a strange boy,” Madame said. Jonas jumped. He hadn’t heard her come in.

     “You’re a strange lady,” Jonas said, tilting his head to look at her. Madame leaned back and laughed, deep in her throat. Jonas stared at her. "What are you going to do with the yarn?" he asked. Madame was still laughing, with tears on her cheeks. Suddenly she stopped, and looked close.

     "I'm creating with the yarn, boy," she said. She looked fierce again. Jonas wondered if he should just be quiet. He nodded sagely, as if he understood creating.

     "Is my mother still here?" he asked. 

     "She is sleeping in her room," she said, jerking her finger toward the wall. Jonas's stomach loosened a little. "I think she likes it here," Madame said, raising her eyebrows. Jonas was interested by her eyebrows. They were exactly the same as her hair, stern and stiff. 

     "I like it here," he said. "I like the fish." She bobbed her head, stooping her shoulders.

     "Fish live in the ocean, so of course I like them. I'll show you the ocean room once you can get around a bit better," she said, moving to leave. Jonas watched her, wishing she could stay. "Understand, boy," she said, dropping her fingers to the mattress beside him. "You are not a normal boy, and so I say what I wish to you. Not all adults will be so kind." Jonas crossed his arms and listened to the sound of the clicking latch. Madame's presence seemed to linger by the bed, her fingers on the mattress.

Wait and Tremble-Part Two

    This is the waiting: 

     Sunny stood in the middle of the dusty road, dust already enveloping her short white dress. Her mouth was round , and her chubby hands pressed over her eyes. This was the waiting. Jonas took one step forward, knowing Sunny could not hear his voice over the hooves. The carriage windows were dark, and the driver was too high and fierce to see a small sun on the road. Jonas took a deep breath, and stopped waiting.

     He ran, kicking up stones like the horses, just even with the first team. There were two teams, and he knew the only way was to stop the first team before they reach her. He saw the flashing teeth as the bits were cruel to their mouths. Their heads were white, pure above him. He chose the last step, and jumped, soaring higher than he could when he was waiting. His fingers caught the edge of the bridle, slid, and stopped against a seam. He hung, still clinging when a hoof cracked against his thigh. The horse reared and pulled toward him, pulled the whole team toward his lane. Jonas rose high, high in the air, hearing the driver’s curses above his own shriek.

     “I cannot wait!” he screamed, over and over. The proud horse reared again, and the others followed, jerking the carriage to a complete sideways stop. Jonas still hung, his fingers and legs bloody from the horse’s kicks. The proud horse stood still, snorting its shame that it had allowed such a small boy turn him from his course. Jonas heard the driver clearly, walking toward him. He felt tiny hands at his back.

     “Let go, Jonas,” Sunny said. “I’ll catch you.” He lowered his legs slowly, and sat heavily on the ground. The horse leaned down and sniffed his legs, showing remorse now. The driver loomed above him, his face white and red in splotches.

     “Crazy kid,” he muttered, kneeling beside Jonas. He touched Jonas’s right leg, and Jonas took a big breathe.

     “Jonas isn’t crazy,” Sunny said. “He’s an orphan.” She crossed her arms, and Jonas winced away his desire to explain to her that orphan and crazy were not opposites, and that he was only fatherless, not an orphan, and that she was possibly the crazy one, freezing in the middle of the road like that. The door to the carriage slammed open, and a straight backed lady stepped down.

     “Madame…” the driver said, stepping back. “I’m afraid we’ve had an accident.”

     “I can see that, Archie. I can see we’ve nearly slaughtered two children.” She stood over Jonas, glaring at Archie. “If you wouldn’t drive so beastly fast, we could be less of a menace to the young ones of this country.” Archie stuttered his apology, and Jonas gaped at her. He’d never heard such a proper looking lady talk like that. “Where’s his mother?” the lady asked, bending over him. Her voice was gentle now. “We’ll get you to the hospital, boy.”

     “My mommy could put some bandages on him,” Sunny said, peering up at Madame. She held up her plump right arm. “See?” A white bandage was taped over her elbow. “I fell on the steps, and mommy put this on it.”

     Madame smiled. “I’m sure she’s an excellent nurse, but I’m afraid boy needs a little more than a bandage. Why aren’t you crying, boy?” she asked Jonas. He blinked at her. His legs hurt, but he was waiting again, and it never mattered when he was waiting. Madame didn’t wait for an answer, looked up as Jonas’s mother sprinted over the gravel.

     “Jonas, Jonas!” she shouted, kneeling beside him.

     “I’m all right, Ma,” he said.

     “We’re getting him to the hospital as soon as my driver turns the carriage around,” Madame said, flicking her hand at Archie.

     “What were you doing on the road?” Ma demanded.

     “Sunny was coming across. She never looks first,” Jonas said, tugging Sunny’s arm. She pulled away.

     “It takes too long to look,” she said. Ma gaped at her.

     “Go get your mother, child,” she said. Sunny grinned and dashed off. “I don’t understand her. She’s too young to be talking like that.”

     “Come along, Jonas, let Archie lift you in,” Madame said. Jonas didn’t understand what he was to do about it. Archie lifted him in with unwarranted puffing-Jonas was a slight boy- and put him on the coach bench. Madame sat beside him, and Ma clambered in. Sunny and her mother ran up a few seconds later.

     “Your daughter was in the road again, Collette,” Ma said. Collette’s face grew stern and she picked up Sunny and shook her a little. Archie clucked the horses and they burst off, leaving Sunny and Collette in a cloud of dust.

     “Not so blasted fast!” Madame screeched. Jonas looked at her stern grey hair, and wondered how Archie had the nerve to pretend he didn’t hear her.

Wait and Tremble-Part One

      Jonas had been waiting, waiting for longer than the usual person likes to wait. He had found something in himself long ago. Jonas liked to wait. Waiting was trembling with the branches, feeling the current of time through his veins. Sometimes, at the peak of his waiting, he felt as if an ocean tide were pulling him deeper, into the woods, or into the sky.
     One day, the old man from the rock garden asked him to wait. Not with words, or a note, or a melody, but in the way he opened his front to door, stretched over the porch to touch the ferns, and retreated inside as if pulled by his own tide. At first, Jonas stood still at the end of the lane where he’d been waiting, and stared, thinking the old man would open the door and change the message, at least subtly alter the movements he had made. Jonas leaned against the fence post and counted the leaves of the ferns that he could see from across the road. The sun rose high, and the man did not change his message. Jonas began to watch other things, looking for messages telling him to wait. The buzz was tingling through him as he stared around, finding the movements in the coned clouds, twisted grass, and a romping lamb with its mother. He waited, running his tongue over his lips as if to still them.
     His mother called from the garden behind the house, but he waited still. The road was dusty, and when a carriage went by, it made him choke. The carts went slowly, and he could wave at them, but the carriages screamed the opposite of ‘wait’, with their stiff, fierce horses and tight reins. Every time a carriage went by, Jonas shrank against the fence, and hoped his waiting had nothing to do with it. The corner was abrupt before his house, and they often caught him by surprise.
     Still his eyes roved, searching for what he was to see. To the right of the old man’s rock garden, there was a small hut. Jonas knew that a tiny girl and her mother lived there, and they did the old man’s cooking and laundry. The little girl was like a stream of sunshine, caught upon the carpet and bound into a short white dress. She capered as if she were made of light, and Jonas’ waiting had often ended with her. As a serious boy who had seen twelve summers, and she a ray of light who had only seen five, she was a perfect girl for a sister. He hadn’t asked her what she thought of it, but once, she had tripped across the road when she saw him waiting, and asked in her sunshine voice if he was lonely.
     The old man’s door opened, and Sunny peeped out. She smiled, though it was tiny, and the waiting seemed to explode into something vital. Jonas couldn’t smile back, with his heart pounding like a sped-up ocean against his chest. She frowned when she saw his wrinkled forehead, and danced down the steps. Jonas  wanted to hold her in my arms, and run away down the hill to the creek, but Jonas wanted her to stay in her own house more. The road. The road was bad. Jonas stared at the dusty road as her black shoes neared it. It was tan, ordinary. This waiting was strange. Jonas took deep breaths, and suddenly stopped. The warm air was not silent. A rumble was growing louder. He edged forward. It sounded like a snobby carriage, but it was different. He opened his mouth the call to Sunny to go back, but she was running, her blond curls bubbling behind her. A carriage exploded around the corner, its horses twice as proud as all the others.
     This was the waiting.

Love

     Something swept over me this week, something too fiery to hold inside. God just loves me. God just loves you. No reason. He feels like it.

    

  If I had two brains, I’d be juggling it from one to the other, afraid to try. This holy God, perfect and just and righteous, is also full of love toward us. All the things I’ve discovered about holiness are beginning to make sense. To be holy in bare response to His holiness is wise, genius, the only serious thing to do, as Kierkegaard would say. God understands us though, more than we can ourselves. We do not know how to be serious, not for eternity. Our seriousness is brief and flickering, and sometimes only achieved by Paul or A.W. Tozer. How perfectly convenient that this God, full of holiness, is able to see beyond our attempts at gravity and love us anyway.

     

     What made David(Crowder as well, read his book Praise Habit) sing God’s praises at the top his lungs was not only His holiness and might, but His love and beauty, exquisite beauty. God makes beauty out of ugliness. God does not only pull us to our feet, He transforms our beings into something breathtaking. I am sure that without new bodies in Heaven, breathing would be impossible. This is the glory of redemption. He not only saves our lives, He continually makes us perfect. Beauty that was once disgusting is twice glorious. If we’d been born perfect, where would the praise be? We would have no comparison for our sanctification. Praise my Jesus, He is making us holy and beautiful every day. Go ahead and shout about it.

   

  I would like to know how the Holy Spirit will be manifested in Heaven. He certainly does a lot of things.

Where are you?

Silence:

Take
Take till there's nothing
Nothing to turn to
Nothing when you get through
Won't you break
Scattered pieces of all I've been
Bowing to all I've been
Running to
Where are you?
Where are you?

Did you leave me unbreakable?
You leave me frozen?
I've never felt so cold
I thought you were silent
And I thought you left me
For the wreckage and the waste
On an empty beach of faith
Was it true?

'cause I...I got a question
I got a question
Where are you?

Scream
Deeper I wanna scream
I want you to hear me
I want you to find me
'cause I...I want to believe
But all I pray is wrong
And all I claim is gone

And I...I got a question
I got a question
Where are you?
Yeah....yeah
And where...I...I got a question
I got a question
Where are you?
Where are you?
Where are you?
Where are you?
-Jars of Clay

     Jasper, a main character in my book, asked this question today. The answer reverberated through my mind like a gong that shakes the walls, the one Pink Floyd had in their music video, the kind you hit with a hammer with all your body. My jaw is a little sore still. Where is God, when these agonizing things happen? With my lovely life, complete with running water and carpet and fantastic parents, I can say He's God, He's with you, He'll never forsake you. But what to say to Jasper? His innocence was stripped from him before he knew what it was. He has nothing to turn to, nothing to believe in. Where was God every moment he spent in despair, in agony, in grief from what his adopted father had forced him to do? When he bent over people he had tortured to save his mother, trying to weep, but unable to make the tears come? Every kind deed he did was met with a blow or a slash with a knife. Where was God in that?
     I couldn't answer this, and I turned to others for this. Theologians didn't know in their hearts. Sympathetic men  could not answer.
     When Jasper stood, and asked where God was when he killed, and when his mother was killed, making empty everything he did, Ravenna stood and said, "Right beside you, weeping for you."
     I trust her. She's felt the despair, the wild hopelessness. Eloi opened her eyes, and showed her where He had been all those times.God was never distant, never out of reach. He felt the agony Himself, and the pain of frustration that each suffering one would not turn and look, see the arms around them, ready to relieve them of their despair. 
     The hard part about God is that he knows the tormentor, as well. Free will, we all know. God feels the agony of all, not only the victim. This is one of the endless things that marks Him so far above our minds. Jasper as yet to understand this, but I believe he will.
     Jasper didn't stay to argue with her. He heard it. Through her, God is no longer silent to him. Jasper has something to believe, a prayer to pray. I'm always surprised when he bursts out with things like this, but it helps me to understand him. Watching his redemption has shown me much about God.

An old question

     Most of you don't claim the titles of Calvinism or Arminianism, but we all want to draw a line. Where is the line that shows the end of faith and the beginning of works, or the end of works and the beginning of faith? This question, this line-drawing experiment, is why there are somber, dry Christians alongside irreverent, rebellious Christians. The invisible line may be placed by your subconscious, or  your parents or friends. Before you realized you have such a line, you are walking down it, often too far into faith or too far into works.
     How do we find the balance? Dad preached on this today. He told a story of a man who would row people across the river. On one oar he had printed FAITH and on the other, WORKS. Someone asked him what this means. He said nothing, but dropped FAITH and rowed with WORKS. He went in circles, obviously. He repeated this with FAITH. Only when he used both oars could he move forward through the water. This is an easy example, but it doesn't draw our line permanently.
     I thought of this line in a new way. What if it isn't a line at all? At least, not with ink, or chalk, or tape. This division between the two could be a living thing. At a youth Bible study a few weeks ago, we discussed faith as  living thing, but we rarely discuss works as living. In Romans 4:4, Paul says, "Now to him that worketh is the reward not reckoned of grace, but of debt." He who does works, not having faith,  is only attempting to fulfil a debt that we owe to God. This debt can never be paid, and the works are dead, dead, dead. In the next verse, Paul says, "But to him that worketh not, but believeth on him that justifieth the ungodly, his faith is counted for righteousness." Is the line drawn yet? Certainly not, if we turn to James. Chapter 2:17, "Even so faith, if it hath not works, is dead, being alone."
     The Bible never contradicts itself. James and Paul were dealing with two different situations. Paul was trying to convince the church that circumcision was not the way to God. It is merely a work that God had asked them to do as Jews. James was explaining that dead faith is useless. Both of these inspired writers understood that God has combined faith and good deeds in such a way that you cannot have one without the other. The line between them is ever mixing them together. When you believe in God, and that He sent His Son to die for us, you have faith. You can't stop there, any more than you can buy a plant and keep it inside and never water it or let it see sunshine. You can't shove your faith into a dark room and expect it to stay alive. You must keep it out, feed it with following God's word. Works good deeds don't save us, but faith without any desire to do good is weak faith, that will whither until it dies. I think of it as a favor that God has given us. He gave us salvation for free, but He will accept the humble offerings of our serving others. I don't redeem myself that way. I just enjoy life on earth more, doing something with myself. Who wants a faith that changes nothing about you? There is no human who is completely content with who they are. I want something that grows inside me, changes parts of me I didn't know I had.

     I finished Ted Dekker's The Sanctuary a few days ago. I've always wondered if his real name is Theodore. It was a deep book, heart deep.
     The story of Danny Hansen and Renee Gilmore begins in The Priest's Graveyard, but Sanctuary takes the theme to a richer place, full of overwhelming love and sacrifice. Danny killed a lot of men, priest or not. His mother and two sisters were raped and killed in the Bosnian War, while he huddled in the corner of his room. In fury at discovering their bodies, he tricked the the soldiers who did and shot them dead. He was fifteen. He joined the Bosnian army, rose high in their ranks, making permanent the marks of war. He carried his justice into America, searching out the 'vipers', as he called them, and calling them to higher lives. Not all of them were amenable to his way of showing them how to be holy. They were vipers, pedophiles, liars, rapists, abusers. What Danny discovered at the end of Graveyard was that we all are. One step away from God, and we all, every single one, are bloodstained from head to toe. Snakes. To refuse this knowledge is to refuse the truth of a holy and just God. Danny showed Renee his way of cleansing the world, not realizing that he was taking the place of the monsters in her life. It was in her right to kill him, as he had her former lover(a snake himself, apparently), but his overwhelming love for her was enough. Love replaced self righteous judgement in Danny's mind. Perhaps he actually read his Bible. Only God can judge. It's not our place.
     Danny took a vow of nonviolence, confessed to his crimes(at least two of them, I will never understand why he didn't confess them all) and was then sent to prison for fifty years. He refused to allow Renee to suffer for her two murders, as he had taught her how and influenced her to commit them. Not long after his incarceration in Ironwood, CA, Danny is transferred to Basal, a revolutionary version of prison ruled by the despotic Warden Pape. Both Renee and Danny are pushed to the end of themselves, as Dekker novels are wont to do. I really mean the end of themselves. I was almost there myself, hearing Danny's screams from Pape's torturous attempts to reform him. To Pape, convicts are back in jail shortly after their release because the system only hardens them. In his prison, Pape's Sanctuary, the warden is God, and any transgression against him results in a breaking of the will of the deviant.
     Renee is in her own hell, unable to contact Danny, receiving horrific threats on Danny's life. The bloody finger of a boy, eerie phone calls. She turns to a lawyer for help. Keith had put Randell, a murderous hater of priests, into prison, and now Basal. Renee entangles herself in a complicated game, desperate with love for Danny. She cannot live without him, and he can't bear to part with her.
     The end game is in the Sanctuary. The one who started the game lures everyone to the same place, and Danny is put to the test. Here, in a cell in Basal, Renee is threatened, and Pape is determined to force Danny to kill again, to admit his brokenness. I don't know what Theodore was thinking here. Danny sees Renee, in Keith's arms, and recognizes him as an earlier victim of his judging of vipers. Keith had beaten his wife, a parish member of Danny's. Danny tied him to a chair and made him vow never to do so again. Keith lied, and then flaunted the vow to his wife. His wife fled after telling the men he worked with. He lost his job, his wife, his life, as he tells Danny bitterly. Renee has played into his hands.
     Danny sees her, shoves away his rage, and notices that Keith and Pape and Randell are just men, unloved men, and in need of love themselves. No Christian writer so widely read has ever approached this issue of love so squarely. It was lovely, while it lasted. Moments later, Renee is on the torture table Danny was a day ago, ready to undergo the same thing. Danny's mind is collapsing, he kneels, trying to clear his head. In a moment, finally, what Dekker calls surrender, Danny decides that he will not punish, he will save. In order to save, as he feels called to do, he will need to punish, however. He kills Keith, shoves his nose into his head. All of the loveliness is shattered, as I see idolatry staring at me.
     It is strange to come up with idolatry after the sin of murder has been committed, but I could see no hand of God in this. Danny worshipped Renee, would kill, take God's scepter in his hands, to keep her from dying. My dear sister's first comment was, convert her, and then he wouldn't have to worry about it. Heaven would be awaiting them both.
     We've been discussing nonresistance for a while at church, and it is repetitive, to be sure. However, while none of us knows what we would do in the heat of the moment, I know Danny was wrong. We cannot love by killing, even to protect those we love. Beyond the fact that we are hating those we send to hell, we are taking authority from God. I'm sure most of us know this, if you've grown up Mennonite, anyway, but it was good for me to ponder it. What would I do?
     I didn't understand Danny. Near the beginning of his imprisonment, he said something profound. "It only makes sense to turn the other cheek if you do it every time." Every time. There is no exception clause. After Danny is released from prison-through various manuverings and because Dekker wanted him to be- Renee asks him if he recants his vow of nonviolence.
     "No, of course not."
     "What if someone comes after me again?"
     "Then I'll stop him, by whatever means necessary."
Renee is in awe of the fact that he's given up his reason on the altar of his overwhelming love for her. Given up his belief in the sovereignty of God as well, though he may not realize it. Reliance on God means to lay down your life, and your right to protect those around you. God allows us to protect, but He will decide by what means. It opened my eyes to His power to read this book. I recommend it, misguided as Dekker may be. He was so close. So very, very close.

     J. R. R. Tolkien was a man who believed in story. I came to this conclusion after this last time through Lord of the Rings. Like my keycard finally turned on the green light. Middle Earth seems so real, because it is. It's real in his head, and now it's real in all of ours, because his realness was so potent. Any fiction book that haunts you, with its characters that talk to you and landscapes that look like somewhere you've seen, it's real to the author first. I can hardly believe the amount of information he realized before he wrote the book. Footnotes, appendixes, the Silmarillion...it's more realistic than out world is sometimes. For every question, he has an answer, and I can hardly argue with him. It's lovely. I'll be spending some of my Heaven time begging him to tell me more. If I can put a little of that into these stories in my head...that's all I wish for. That and the whimsicality of Ray Bradbury, God rest his soul.

       The light comes and the darkness flees. Every day this happens, but shouldn’t it be explosive, uproarious, shocking? The darkness before Eloi’s light is so webbed and confusing, a heavy entity that tightens with struggle. Ravenna, the protagonist in this story, feels an unexlainable burden. Despair, ignorance, chains. Writing this story is changing me, whether I asked it to or not, viewing Ravenna’s transformation from inside her like this. When people ask me how I like writing, I tell them to be jealous and grateful it’s not them at the same time. Creating artistically pulls energy from places I didn’t know I had. I feel with her the darkness, the pitch black of night before God. Where can she turn? Wrapped in her hopelessness, until, in glorious day, she explodes into the morning. I want to scream about it, really. The light of Eloi is so warm, untangling, smoothing. You can see and know. You can be seen and be known. If you’ve let Jesus into your heart, God’s Spirit into yours, then you know this light. Don’t hide it away. Share it with others who still lurk in solitary confinement, unsure of the point of life. No matter how bright your first light is, it will fade if you put it in a closet and stuff rags under the doors.

     

     Good and evil, like light and dark, are sometimes more tangible than you would think. Glory is showing me that, one jarring page at a time. Not that it’s such a shocking story, but it has to be mine, and I find correlations between this story and the earthly one. I can see now that God has given us His glory and light to share. He is slowly cleansing our veins of the heavy darkness. Check yourself, as I do when I think of glory. Is His light shining through your heart, making it transparent, so that God can see every part?

     Take the light of God’s glory as your refuge, your rock, the thing you refuse to release. Persecution and pain cannot shake the fact that God is full of light, and we, as His followers, are like glowing embers, trying to start our own fire. There are fortresses of darkness in this world, and you need something to shield you while you walk there. Sometimes we’re not so far from fantasy.

Holy, holy, is our Lord God Almighty

     God is holy{specially recognized as or declared sacred by religious use or authority; consecrated: holy ground. 2.saintly; godly; pious; devout: a holy life.3.having a spiritually pure quality: a holy love.5.entitled to worship or veneration as or as if sacred: a holy relic}
   
     I could be done with this before I began, if human beings didn't live for the steady flow of explanation. The Separation and Nonconformity Colloquy at Faith Builders revolved around the holiness of God and its shaping of history and present time. Anabaptism, that disciplined system to which many of us adhere, attempts to make the holiness of God practically manifest in us.
   
     The clothes, the cars, the houses. "People say that they believe, but do not show it in their dress," Menno Simon wrote. Is this where it ends? Wendell Heatwole, Nathan Yoder, and Val Yoder, often addressed the wondrous state of transformation that every true new believer experiences. Dress is not the end of this issue. The change in our hearts, the unscientific and miraculous change wrought by the Holy Spirit when we call on Him, is the foundation for our separation from the world. Once this transformation is begun, the dress and conduct will follow.
   
     Several brilliant points were made that Saturday, and one of them was the positiveness of separation. When we play word association with separation, we find division and isolation. It is vital, however, not to forget that Deuteronomy 7:6 speaks of separation unto God. We are holy people unto Him, not only away from the world. Romans 12:2 says, "...be ye not conformed to this world: but be ye transformed by the renewing of your mind..." Transformation is the positive side of nonconformity. We really should call it Separation and Transformation. When transformation is taking place, separation from the world is inevitable.

     Here's a hard idea, and I'm not saying it without crushing my own toes: If that transformation is taking place in our lives, we are recognizing our place as temples of the Living God(II Cor. 6:16-18), and attempting to demonstrate to the world human examples of God's holiness, then how do we struggle so fiercely against standards and disciplines that have been placed over our lives? We can expect our children to follow in our footsteps as we leave disciplines behind. Why is it so hard to give up earthly things and cover ourselves with things, when we are attempting to embody God's holiness? We can never do enough. When our own glory is the focus of our lifestyle, God's holiness is profaned. His temple is scandalously vandalized, and the world will scoff at His Name.

     God didn't create us to torment us with our own inadequacy. He sent Jesus to set us free. Brother Val spoke on the beauty of holiness. Along with our salvation, God gives us the loveliness of holiness, and the freedom of a higher standard. No longer are we forced to search for fame, beauty, and short-lived pleasure. We are free from the world's mind-set. Our future dreams, our habits, the way we live our lives: these are all lifted to the level of the holy. We have the blessing of God, and when hardship comes, we have His everlasting arms on which to lean. This is what attracts nonbelievers to us, and precisely why I love to be an Anabaptist Mennonite. It's hard to live in this freedom and try to reach those still in bondage, but God makes it possible.They don't know why, but they see what they have. Mennonites are known for their families that last, modest women, respectful men, and obedient children.
And of course, nice houses. Something to work on, American Mennonites. :)
My point is, do you think these things are hereditary, without the passing on of disciplines? It's illogical to think that we can try to maintain the beauty of holiness without do anything that separates us from the world. We must not profane the temple of the living God, the only living God.

     I challenge all of you. Reach for holiness. Ask God to show you how. Don't be ashamed to give up things that others think are fine, if you feel Him speaking to you. I don't know how it will happen individually, but we must clutch holiness if we want to retain our freedom. Look at teenagers in public highschools if you need motivation to protect your future children. Make decisions now that will keep your grandchildren searching for holiness. What you decide now, even before you're married, will change everything. Don't mess around with it, please. We don't have long on this earth to be like God. Make Him proud.