Paris

We made a wise decision in Paris, at least one. The Louvre is large. It looks large on the outside, more than my eyes could take in, but inside, it is beyond my eyes and legs and mind. If there were not signs, we would have been lost forever and had to befriend marble statues of Diana the Huntress in order to survive. (She would supply food and protection, of course, from the rest of the bloodthirsty statues, really, you have no idea how many battle scenes we stumbled into).
On a sign we saw a picture of the Mona Lisa and an arrow pointing forward, and we veered to right instead.
"I'm not ready to see her yet," Sheila said.
"Neither am I," I said.
"You guys are funny," Miranda said.
We found a small convoluted section of something Greekish-statues and other things.(I'm sorry, but there have been too many museums and enough art to make a mottled pile of marble in the back of my mind).  Convoluted means small alleys and half levels and a final spilling out into the main section again. Toward Mona. We soon followed a crowd. They stood before her diminutive, serene, mysterious face, a dozen deep and many wide, held back by security guards standing with their hands carefully together. Our camerawoman fought her way to the front while I stood on the side and finally understood why people were there and why pictures are not the same. That smile still lives in my mind, a mystery. I envy da Vinci the time spent with the woman who smiled that smile. Paris was worth visiting to see that smile with my own eyes.
Now, to the wise decision. Our feet were sore, and we found a beautiful tall gallery, white tiles and green potted plants, a garden of marble sculptures.
We sat down on a wide white bench and drew and wrote and drew. (Two artists and an aspiring writer). I sat under the rearing gaze of a wild horse and its rider. The form was so living the mane seemed to fly in the wind, foam to arise at its mouth.
I sat and wrote, "The glass of Paris is full of my reflection." I wrote of living near this Louvre and making it know me as well as I wanted to know it and its marble arches, marble myths, marble love stories. I wrote tiny, barely-seen stories of three or four sentences. I could sit and not create, surrounded by the remaking of so many tales. I look back and wonder how I did not wish for Aslan to come and breathe them to life, but such wishing would be selfish, because many of the victims would rather remain stone, I am sure. I wanted the wild horse to live, just to see if his wild driver would ever contain him. He reminded me of Maggie Stiefvater's cople isce, fighting the call of the sea.
A woman sat beside us for a few moments, and when we began to talk among ourselves, she alerted us to the fact that she was from the States, in the south somewhere. Her last experience with knowing someone's language without their being aware had been entertaining but also more information than she wanted. She-an English teacher from Kentucky or Tennessee, there with a friend-showed us some pictures she had taken of sculptures-mostly of soldiers or gods carrying swords and wearing helmets and nothing else. Her invented captions were very funny, if a little crude, but most of the sculptures were that way, so I can hardly blame her for making jokes.
So our wise decision was to sit down.
I saw women walk through in four inch heels and I thanked my Maker that I never have to wear those for any reason.
I listened to an angry Chinese father trying to explain to his wife and children the importance of art.
I wished the horse would let loose with a thunderous trumpet and that Jesus would come back and shine through the glass roof. I wished that right now, anyway.
I did not expect this: to enter the Louvre, you must enter the pyramid in front and go downstairs. The museum begins below the visible museum. The three smaller glass pyramids are skylights to the lower floors.
I have not spoken yet of the crepes and pastries. Paris has creperies-special crepe restaurants- and they make crepes filled anything you like. The savory ones are nearly as good as the sweet.
And bread. The baguettes are perfect to tuck under your arm and take on a picnic.
We stayed with a friendly but strict lady, Cynthia. Her husband, Jean Christophe, was very kind, and her little girls shouted "Bonjour" every time they saw us.
We waited for a long time to climb the Eiffel Tower, and indeed, we climbed it. I do not know how many stairs, but it was worth every one. I saw the moon in the sky while I looked across the city, and I thought, "how small the world is. The same God loves us all, and gives us the same moon to smile on us."
People are the same, the world over. They have different faces, different hands, different voices, but their hearts are the same. They long to be warmed by the true God, and those that have been warmed let it out in kind, kind deeds.
We heard Holy Mass in French at the Notre Dame Cathedral. I saw incense and a crowd of hushed, shocked tourists, and I grinned, knowing they could not escape the presence of God there. They never can, but I am sure each one of them knew in their hearts, so similar to mine, that He was there.
Outside the cathedral, a lady gave us rice to hold in our hands, and small sparrows perched on our fingers and ate the rice grains. Now I wonder if they were kin to the lastavica, Island of the World, because they seemed to speak to me with their fearlessness.

Unseparated

Hunger for God.
What is it?
Is it the reason for the ache deep in me that nothing seems to completely soothe? Reading that Holy Word, soaking it into my bones, seems to soften it. Lifting my face to the sky that seems to hold my Maker, lifting my consciousness to He Who is the object of my hunger, and so must be every answer I need-that fills me up, short moments at a time.
But who could know what the ache is? How can it be something that nothing tangible could fill, not words and not touch. It is always there.
I want to know why. Why, why, why do my days seem to fill with almost bitter yearning for a God who could break me? Who bends me until I think I will break.
The bitter becomes sweet with time, but still, it is an unanswered question. This hunger, this yearning, is different than any other. No bread can fill it, no human companionship, no vision.
I know the answer lies somewhere in my own creation. I am made to yearn for something more, but the sweet yearning grew into aching melancholy the day our ancestors first turned away from the Answer.

The hunger is what makes fellowship with Jesus so sweet. It is good. It rescues us from looking only inward rather than upward. I recognize that. But what is it?

I didn't expect to ever know. I thought it was a lifelong quest, a question that would rasp out between pants when I finally reached the Great White Throne. I was right. I will always be searching, but a part of it has been given to me through a story and a friendship and five week trek through Europe.

I read Michael O'Brien's Island of the World on trains and piazza steps and hotel beds. While I read the story of Josip, the epic, stirring, illuminating story of Josip, I thought about many things.
First, what is this hunger for God.
Second, why is it inescapably easy to connect with certain people. I dislike how this sounds. It does nothing to capture the magic of a true kindred spirit.
Third, what is love, what is love, what is love. I don't know why that is third. Josip did not distract me from that question. I don't purpose to talk about that, but perhaps it will appear.

So, hunger for God, and hunger for certain people.
I have a friend. I tell her that beneath her, through her, runs a deep current of...muchness. Words fail me. Being with her is like breathing in a rich, earthy, healing scent. I understand her somehow, and feel understood, just by lying next to her on a blanket, staring up at the stars. We do not have everything in common. Our passions are not the same, though similar in ways. Something about us is drawn together, something deep within.

I read Island slowly because I had to pause often to place each message of truth where it belonged. Josip undertakes his final journey, and his words to one he loves shocked me like a lightening bolt, an answer to my questions of yearning and connection.

"A man is himself and no other," Josip says. "He is an island in the sea of being. And each island is as no other. The islands are connected because they have come forth from the sea, and the sea flows between them. It separates them yet unites them, if they learn to swim."

We are all separate. We are all islands, never fully understood by another island. 

I pondered the other islands that surround me, and my thoughts stumbled on God, from whom I have come forth. He is the sea, He is the air, He is the way to unseparate myself, slowly, from those I love and long to love. He and I are unseparated.  He understands me, this lonely island. He allows me to understand Him, carefully, perfectly, making sure not to break me before He is finished with me.

This is the longing. I am made to be one with others. I am made to be one with my Maker. Always, whether I have tasted His perfect fellowship or not, even before I surrendered to His will, my very being longs to be one with Him. He understands me perfectly! How crazy! Nuts. Cashew, as my friend Sue would say.

And these people that float around me...sometimes the closer I get, the more I realize how separated we are. Compared to the unseparateness I can have with the Father. And yet the joy of kindred minds, hearts, and spirits is a great, great gift. A treasure I am unworthy to hold, but will cherish with gratitude.

I said I didn't purpose to discuss love and what it is, but I cannot resist. We float as lonely islands, growing close to and understanding those God has given us to understand. The loneliness is softened by these gifts. Just now, a great gift I have been given is to have a young man ask to understand me. To be close to me. When I look across the waves around me, I am most days so surrounded by islands that look back with love, I must strive to see the sea. But the islands ever move, sending the foaming sea far up my shores, and the unseparateness of my land and the God-Who-is-the-Sea is sweet, sweet fellowship.

Firenze

The people in this country want to know me, and where I come from, and when I say, "Ohio," it is not a joke. We-Americans-and they-Italians-are sincere about where we live. We will not step away from home, but rather welcome the outside in.
Florence comes alive with the night-I've never heard such a loud, celebratory night. If ever a city was choked on magic, it would be this one. Everything is golden, more so after the sun goes down and the streets are lit by window displays of gleaming leather on gleaming mannequins. Gelaterias on every corner, sometimes two.
If the carabinieri were to order every tourist, Italian and otherwise, out of their city, the streets just might be bone-empty. The city workers would be left, with their long handled brooms and street cleaning machines. But they would hardly have any trash to collect, without their thousands of eager and messy invaders.
If you walk aimlessly down the streets of Florence, as we did, you will find corners that smell like leather because there are so many shops and their doors are open. The fancier hotels welcome you with frigid air. No one seems to dream of hoarding air conditioning to themselves.
After the third day of gelato, we learned to watch the portions given to customers before us, to see if they would get a generous three euros cup or a miserly one. Stay away from the piazzas, our friend Teresa told us. Every business on the squares pays crazy rent just to be there. They charge a lot, but you get to look at the Duomo or the copy of David while you eat your ice cream.
This is how we met Teresa: we were walking down an alley that led to many more alleys, looking for a shoe store with decent prices, and Teresa stepped out of a caffe and asked us if we needed help. We told her that we wanted shoes, and she began to give directions. She wore pearls and a neat blue dress and comfortable, pretty shoes. Her hair was grey and every other thing she said was so eccentric or good humored that I laughed. Teresa was celebrating not having a tumor after all, and she wanted to give back to God by helping us.
She asked if we wanted to go the most beautiful bar in Firenze, or just a normal one. We smiled and said the most beautiful one. What else could we say? She wanted to celebrate. She called us the 'three graces', because we looked so nice. (Italians like Mennonites quite a bit)
She led us around corners and down streets, explaining the history of Florence in connection to buildings we passed. She was an American married to an Italian, so communication was not a problem. (If anyone is going to Florence, I can connect you with her daughter, Raffaella, a tour guide, one of the best, Teresa says.) We stopped at a market, and she introduced us to Elena and her sister, and then Amir, a Palestinian. "He is the most beautiful man," she said. "He's married, and so am I, but we can enjoy God's creation, no?" We laughed, and were a little underwhelmed, but he wasn't ugly, to be sure, and very nice. We stopped at a shoe store next and she introduced us to Samuel, who promised to give us good deals. Everywhere she went, she told the news that the hospital tests had come back clear, and she was healed. She was trailing joy and leaving everyone smiling in her wake. It was wonderful.
The Riviore was a bar on Pizza Uffizi, overlooking the copy of David. Five euros just to sit down.(so we didn't) She walked in and said something like this to the man at the counter, "Paolo, God has healed me. I must celebrate with these three graces I have met. Make me something beautiful." She asked if we drink alcohol, and we said no, and she said she didn't either, though she almost could today, and she told Paolo, something beautiful without alcohol. He smiled and turned away. "He is a cocktail expert," she assured us.
He did something with strawberries and something else delicious, in beautiful goblets, and then he set out pistachios and chips and crackers and we stood by the counter and celebrated while waiters in suits bustled by and smiled at us. It was beautiful. It was all funny and grand, to walk into a place full of elegant people and ask Paolo for something beautiful. Teresa asked if we wanted anything else, and I asked, where could we find men's shoes, and Paolo wrote down a place on a card and gave it to me. I smiled at him, but judging by what he was wearing, he cared a little more about quality and less about price than I did.
Teresa took a picture with us, and gave us her email, and kissed us on both cheeks before she left to tell her worried nieces the good news. She celebrated with us, three strangers, before telling her family. It was the best first day in a city that we could hope for.
I have so many other stories that I could tell. Italy has been full of overwhelmingly kind people. The only thing I tired of in Florence was the vendors selling lasers and squishy toys and scarves. These poor Italians cannot find jobs, but I wish they would sell something less annoying. Scarves aren't annoying, I suppose.
Our last night in Florence, we sat on the steps to the Duomo and watched people. A group of young people sat on our left. I couldn't tell exactly where they were from, because some spoke Spanish and some English. One guy played guitar beautifully, using a pen and elastic bands as a capo. They were a little hippie. In the middle of a song, he paused and leaned over and asked Miranda if he could borrow the ponytail holder on her wrist. She gave it to him, and he said she could have it back whenever she wished.
"Keep it," she said.
"Like a present?" he said, smiling.
"Sure," she said. he nodded, and bent over the strings again, trying to read the lyrics from his phone.
We walked back to our hotel slowly, the streets more full at 10:00 than three hours before. When we boarded the train to Rome the next morning, we seemed to step out of a time machine, as if we had spent years instead of days in the golden city and now we had to learn how to breathe oxygen and walk on normal pavement and weave our way through normal, working Italians instead of a steady stream of people from other places.

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.