Out of the Office Message

I am out of the office this week. I will not return to work until Monday, December (yipes!) 6th.

Other than catching up on personal e-mails, Facebook messages, and the like, I've realized a few things that I have fallen behind on. I'm not quite halfway through my time away from work, and I've learned so much about myself and the necessity to maintain balance in my life.

Yes, I tend to hide in work. But this time, I actually enjoy my job!

Whenever I have some time to actually take stock of the direction of my life, I realize how much people are infuriated with me. There are some people I have hurt and they are angry that I never say anything. I would be offended if their accusations weren't true.

Yes, I tend not to say anything. I stay quiet, not because I'm removed from the situation, but because I don't know what to say. Here's a lesson on my processes: I am a super sensitive person (that's not new) and very literal (that's also not new). But what that means is, no matter what the intent, if the words are careless, my heart breaks.

And then...I don't say anything.

If the survival modes are fight or flight, I am definitely the latter.

The Bible points out the value of being slow to speak:

Know this, my beloved brothers: let every person, be quick to hear, slow to speak, slow to anger; for the anger of man does not produce the righteousness of God. --James 1:19-20 (ESV)

The problem when applying this verse to my life, I realize I am not slow to speak. I am just slow. I don't speak.

I shouldn't just speak out of anger, or because I feel the need to say something. I believe we should think before we speak. And we should always speak out of love. The Bible is also clear on careless words.

But I almost must remember that people aren't mind readers. There are some people who are waiting for me to say something. Anything at all...as long as it's real.

I have about five days left before I return to work. And I hope that in that time, I will see the value of speaking instead of just seeking comfort in silence. Apparently, this lesson in speaking up for myself has been a decade long struggle.

We'll see how it goes.

A Conversation with Grandpa

Wow. It has been a long while since I've written anything on this blog. I guess I've been quite distracted lately.

Distracted. Busy. Exhausted. Repeat.

Well, today's offering has been brought to you by a family dinner that I had gone to last Saturday. I had arrived earlier than usual, armed with a week's worth of laundry and my book of Beethoven Sonatas. My Everest is actually Lizst's Hungarian Rhapsody No. 2 (think of every Bugs Bunny or Tom and Jerry cartoon that featured a piano duet) but since I am sorely out of classical practice, I brought out my favorite: Beethoven.

This shouldn't be a surprise to anyone who knows me. Who else could speak to my sudden emotional roller coaster and bouts of melancholy other than Beethoven?

At any rate, I was working on the Adagio second movement of Sonata No. 8 when my grandpa took a seat. I became frustrated with a certain part of the piece and I reverted back to the lessons in piano discipline and went over the difficult pieces over and over again. I almost made it through when suddenly my fingers fumbled over a nine note run. Exasperated, I threw my hands in the air and looked at my grandpa with a face that revealed my broken heart.

It was at this moment when this lovely gem of a conversation emerged:

Grandpa: You lost it, huh?

Me: It looks that way.

Grandpa: I've warned you about this.

Me: I know.

Grandpa: You've lost your touch.

Me: I get it.

Grandpa: You're past your prime.

Me: [laughing with him] Really. I get the picture.

Grandpa: I thought you were still playing piano at your church.

Me: [huge sigh.] Not any more.

Grandpa: You see? I've warned you. If you stop playing, you'll lose it.

Me: [suddenly defiant.] I haven't lost it.

Grandpa: It sounds like it to me.

Me: I haven't lost it!

Grandpa: Well, it's either that, or you're old.

Me: Very funny. I am not old.

[we both laugh hysterically at the thought. I start to close my book.]

Grandpa: What are you doing? Keep playing.

Me: You told me that I've lost it.

Grandpa: Get it back.

[Grandpa returns to his New York Times crossword puzzle and I continue perfecting the song.] End scene.

I don't know why, but he is one of the few that can speak to me in a way that won't irrevocably damage my fragile musician ego. I've encountered a few barbs regarding my musicianship lately, but this conversation didn't break my heart like the others. Instead, it spurred me on to try harder.

Oh Grandpa, you always have a special place in my heart.

Sure, the conversation may have sounded harsh, but as punishment, he had to endure two hours of me hammering out the Beethoven piece until it was perfect, so I guess I got the better end of the deal.

Two Months Later

I hadn't realized how much I had missed it.

Last Sunday (8/15) I had an opportunity to play piano for my church.

The last time I had played piano was on Memorial weekend. My "sabbatical" had lasted a little over two months. I didn't have an end date for my sabbatical, and technically, I am still in it. But I wanted to play.

No, I ached to play.

I still do.

After a few key conversations with some close friends of mine, I found that I may have been too hasty in my decision to leave. I was lying to myself, to others, and to God. I was holding back on a part of my heart that ached to express my love for my God. In the two short months that I had quit playing piano, my foolish rebellion in refusing to reveal my truest heart was affecting me in ways that I had not realized. I was easily angered, easily confused, easily distracted, easily saddened.

Freedom to express oneself has its merits. And I realize that expressing love is necessary.

I had been so afraid of expressing love. I am afraid if I offer my heart--even to God--that it would be rejected.

There is no fear in love. But perfect love drives out fear, because fear has to do with punishment. The one who fears is not made perfect in love.

--John, 1 John 4:18

As I have probably mentioned many times before on this blog, I have an unusually high filter. I hold back on so much. And I stopped the one way I freely express myself.

Why would I think that quitting would be a good idea?

Despite my stupidity, I was glad to have the opportunity to play.

I still am.

So I played last Sunday. With all of my heart. And it was wonderful. It was healing. It was nothing more than a small offering of my truest heart to my God to let him know how much I love Him.

And I hope it was enough.

Rearrangement

In a slight manic episode, I rearranged my apartment.

The last time I had rearranged my apartment, I threw out my back in my foolish attempt to move my furniture on my own.

Ok, I'll admit, some things didn't change. I still moved the furniture on my own, but at least I didn't throw out my back. (But if you ask the worship team, I was very sore on Sunday morning. Blarg.)

I don't know why, but this particular change had opened my heart. I moved the couches around, made the TV less of the focus of the room, and moved my music out from the boxes and placed them on what was once my entertainment center. (Yes, I kept the TV--it's just on a less prominent place in the living room. And yes, I still am looking for a piano). I collected all my books from the numerous random piles throughout my apartment and placed them on the bookshelf where they belonged. And all that I have written is within reach.

It was freedom. And for the first time in a long time since I moved out on my own, it felt like it was my home and not just a place where I slept.

My life was no longer hidden in corners of my apartment; it was out in the open.

If my home is a metaphor of my heart, I feel like this sudden, and albeit manic, rearrangement of my apartment may be a step in the right direction in revealing who I really am.

The Soccer Ball is a Metaphor for Her Heart

Sports Camp is over.

I love this event. So much hard work is involved, and I love to see my church community come together to play sports, hang out with children, sing songs, dance crazy, and make fools of themselves all so that children can know God.

This year, my job for Sports Camp is a creative one. I am thankful for every opportunity Kristin gives me to write a skit, but the Sports Camp skits hold a special place in my heart.

Especially this one.

My life tends to fall apart when I write a skit. The writing process for this year's skit is no exception. In my last post, I shared that I identified with plot of the skit and pondered the ending. Because I am Abby, I wanted to re-write everything. It was coming down to the wire and all I wanted to do is change the final skit.

Something was missing, and I couldn't figure it out.

It didn't occur to me the missing part until Tuesday morning, two days before the final skit performance. I re-wrote the last page and snuck it into rehearsal.

I was worried on the day of the final skit. Was it going to work? Would people respond? What if I still don't like it? Did the drama team know that they were speaking for me, that they were my voice?

I couldn't be more proud of the drama team. All week they had impressed me with their comedic timing; their commitment to the characters that I had created. Most of the skit was a comedy--not my forte. Typically, my writing is serious by nature and I knew that the only reason why the jokes worked was because of the actors. But the last page was different and I worried if anyone would go along with it.

Surprisingly enough, they did. The Sports Camp kids cheered on their hero as he reclaimed the soccer ball from his nemesis, and celebrated when the main character made the pivotal decision to ask for help and join her team. And as the kids erupted with support for her final line, I knew they were on her side; they truly wanted her to win.

As I mentioned in my last post, it is strange to see your life story unfold on stage. Sure, I may have over-identified with this year's skit. Sure, the writing process may always involve a little breaking of my heart. Sure, I may never be a comedic writer. I don't know if and/or when I will be asked to write again, but if asked, I am sure that I would do it again.

Of all the things I could be sure of, I know this to be true: there are some things I couldn't create or write for myself. After months of isolating discouragement and shattering silence, at this year's Sports Camp, God gave my voice back to me.

And my heart was healed.

Identification

Every once in awhile, I write skits for my church.

I don't think I'm very good at it, but I will take any opportunity to write something. At least I'll be writing, right?

The good person out of the good treasure of his heart produces good, and the evil person out of his evil treasure produces evil, for out of the abundance of the heart his mouth speaks.

--Luke 6:45 (ESV)

The latest offering is for my church's version of Vacation Bible School: Sports Camp. I know nothing about sports, I don't know anything about camp, but I am thankful that my friend Kristin still trusts me to write the skits.

Perhaps I was a little out of practice, but the writing process for this skit took a little longer than I was used to. I was way past deadline and I couldn't write past the second act. Finally, two weeks past deadline, I rushed through scenes three and four. Frustrated and dissatisfied, I ripped up the last two scenes and started over. I didn't make a good read through until I had to turn in the skit at the Sports Camp meeting.

I hadn't realized the storyline I had created until I was talking through the entire play. It isn't unusual for me to identify with one of my character's inner struggle. What was unusual was how blatantly the plot was my story.

Identify, much?

It is a surreal experience to see your story play out on stage. I'd like to think I was not so overly self-indulgent in my writing--especially when I write for church--but apparently, this story that I have ignored in my own life needed to get out on paper just to get my attention.

The skit has a little neat ending. I'm not sure if my reality will play out in the same way.

A Moment to Breathe

This 4th of July, I did my usual fare: I read the Declaration of Independence and pondered what it meant to be a citizen.

And then, the whirlwind that is the Independence Day Celebration commenced. Church, BBQ, hanging out with friends. This year, I opted to go to my friend Erin's parent's house on Fox Island and spend the 4th of July on the beach.

It was windy, cold, dreary and fantastic. I don't think I'll ever get the campfire smell out of my hair.

But my favorite moment of the entire weekend came the day after. I returned to Fox Island to have breakfast at the same beach.

It was near perfection. A sunny morning. The sound of the water upon the shore. Breakfast near the fire pit. Friends sitting around talking and enjoying each other's presence. A fantastic cup of coffee.

I think there was even a seal named Barney and his mother, Cecilia.

At one point, with a warm cup of coffee in my hands, I felt peace amid the comfortable silence in the presence of my friends.

I took a deep breath and it was beautiful.

Losing My Voice

In looking over this blog, I wonder: didn't I use to write better than this? No--scratch that--didn't I used to write more than this?

Somewhere along the way, I found that I had lost my ability to write anything that doesn't sound like one of the hundreds of e-mails that I compose on a weekly basis. I am already unable to speak on the phone in a casual manner: I can't stop myself from slipping into my professional business voice and leaving voicemail messages with my work's tagline.

I don't see myself as a writer any more than I see myself as a musician. However, I must admit that I love writing and I miss having this outlet. Sadly, like with most things as of late, writing is on the long list of things I ran away from because it got too hard.

So the questions remain: will I always run from the things I love? Will I ever have the courage to rise above the criticisms and keep enjoying the things I love to do?

Will I ever take a risk?

End of a Season

I suppose now I can finally talk about it.

Yesterday (Sunday) was my last Sunday morning as a worship leader at my church. There are many reasons that led up to this decision, and for the most part, I am peace about the end of this season of my life.

However, yesterday morning was rough. Everything was falling apart, nothing was going right, and I was an emotional wreck. I had spent most of my Saturday morning crying over this change, and I was determined not to repeat that in front of everyone on Sunday morning.

For little over a year, I was the worship leader for the 11 am service at my church. No one really knew that was what I did except for the worship team that served with me faithfully week in and week out. As such, for most people, this change in leadership won't seem different. I am stepping down from a role that people didn't know I had. So, if anyone saw me crying on Sunday morning, they wouldn't know why.

This change affects me more than I had realized. I love leading worship. I love putting set lists together. I love rehearsal. I love hanging out with my worship team and discovering how to play a song together.

I am really going to miss this.

This season has come to an end, and I eagerly anticipate to see what will come next; to see what dreams God will unfold before me; to see what desires of my heart will be fulfilled. It is exciting and sad at the same time.

But for the moment, all I can think about is how much I am going to miss this.

I would also like to say thank you to my wonderful worship team. Thank you for staying by me as I clumsily tried to figure out this leadership role. You all are gifted musicians and I am touched by your big hearts and service to God. I look forward to working with all of you again when I return from my "sabbatical."

Thank you to my friends who prayed for me over this day. A special thank you to Elena and Rana for visiting me and making this moment a celebration.

This dream of mine to lead worship is coming to an end. Even if it was for a little while, I am supremely thankful for the time I had been given to try out this dream and see if I could do it. And I hope that the end of this dream would make room for another dream to begin.

Sigh. I really am going to miss this.

Long Drives in the Car and Singing Loudly

One of my favorite memories is the road trip to LA and San Diego that I had taken the spring break of my junior year with my housemates, Heather and Larissa. We had taken my car and drove 21 hours to LA, picked up Larissa's sister, Megan, and then headed over to San Diego.

And of course, there was singing. Loud singing. On-top-of-your-lungs-don't-care-who-is-watching-singing. I am certain we looked odd and a tad bit crazy, but we also looked like we were having a lot of fun.

I miss moments like that.

I have lot of fear and trepidation when I sing. It's not within the comfort zone--or as some people put it--my sweet spot--to sing. As I've mentioned many times before, I find freedom and joy in playing piano. Since I can't carry a piano with me everywhere I go (no, the dinky keyboard I take with me for rehearsals does not count!), singing often becomes the next best thing.

I enjoy singing. I enjoy singing and not caring if anyone hears, not caring if it sounds great, not caring what people think. I enjoy singing when it is about heart and freedom and joy.

Which is probably why you'll only find me singing with such great abandon when I'm taking a long drive in the car.

It's too bad that I can't afford the gas to fuel my car for such carefree frivolity.

Traveling Library

This post is for Sara. I love you, my beautiful friend!

My grandfather collects books. He used to receive books from everywhere, but the ones I loved most were the leather bound books from the Easton Press. They were mostly books written by literary greats and philosophers. As a child, I ran my fingers long the covers of those books, longing for the day when I could be old enough to read them. The first one I read from that collection was Lewis Carroll's Alice's Adventures in Wonderland.

I loved it.

Growing up, I picked up my grandfather's habit of collecting books. I had a library of my own as a child, but when I became too old to read those books, they were donated to the Fairwood Public Library. Since then, I had accumulated a lot of books to add to my ever-growing library.

Apparently, some of those books never make it out of the car.

When I was cleaning my car for my carpool to BSF one Monday night, I discovered a collection of books. I was known for keeping pairs of shoes in my car, but I never realized I was building a mobile library as well.

So, Sara (and for those interested), here is the list of books I found in my car. Let me know if any of these are books I had borrowed from you...otherwise, you may never get it back!

1. The Great Divorce, CS Lewis

2. The Story of Painting, Sister Wendy Beckett

3. Jesus Wants to Save Christians, Rob Bell

4. Desiring God, John Piper

5. The Measure of a Man, Sidney Poitier

6. The Republic, Plato

7. The Last Undercover: The True Story of an FBI Agent's Dangerous Dance with Evil, Bob Hamer

8. Waking the Dead, John Eldredge

9. Spiritual Leadership: Moving People on to God's Agenda, Henry & Richard Blackaby

10. The Pilgrim's Progress, John Bunyan

11. Six American Poets: An Anthology, Edited by Joel Conarroe

12. The Hour I First Believed, Wally Lamb

Yes, I am a nerd.

Struggle and Joy

Have you ever been in a place where people actually looked at you with hatred?

In the recent past, I have had that extremely uncomfortable experience. Yes, I responded with fear, and sometimes with courage. I was able to hold on to my emotional filter, but became completely unhinged after a few hours of holding in my emotional response to this group's judgment and rejection. (Thank you to those who have forgiven me for my stupid outburst.)

But as a whole, I am very glad that I had walked into the lion's den. I had a lot of fear, but out of that experience, I found joy and comfort. God protected my heart and allowed me the room to enjoy the event and my friends in midst the presence of those who hate me.

I'm not going to run toward another similar experience like this, but at least I know that with the grace of God and my friends, I can get through this with the iota of courage I have. I am certain that if another opportunity like this presents itself, I can still come out of the other side and not feel shame and fear. I can go through this struggle and find joy. I can go through this and not completely lose myself. I believe in a God that is bigger than this situation and that group of people. And have people who love me and will stand by me even if I mess up.

You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies; you anoint my head with oil; my cup overflows. Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life, and I shall dwell in the house of the LORD forever.

--David, Psalm 23:5-6 (ESV)

And to that group of people who still hate me, you almost won this round. But know this: you won't steal another moment of joy from me.

Choosing a Different Story

I've been thinking a lot about the stories I've inherited.

A few days ago, I found out some stories about my family of which I had no idea. Considering that my family is prone to keeping secrets, discovering new stories wasn't a surprise, but the content of said stories certainly caught me off guard. As I contemplated these stories, I realized how much I had hoped that I had known these stories sooner. If I had known these stories, would I have been saved from sharing similar experiences?

Please don't misunderstand me. There are many things I wish to inherit from my family, many traditions and stories I want to continue and build upon. I'm not well versed in generational sin, but I do believe that there are some stories that I hope I will not continue. I want them to end with me. I don't want to pass down the shame and fear and isolation that seems to follow my family. I want them to live with true joy, true love, a true relationship with God. I want them to experience a different kind of story.

One of my deepest desires is to have my own family, and as of late, I've been contemplating the kind of legacy I would build for my family. I hope that my family will glorify God and enjoy the presence of his peace and freedom. I hope for my family an abundant life and not one that is afraid or lived in secret. I hope for my family love that is real and a love that they will not have to question or doubt.

Most of the time I find myself without much of a purpose. I've been told many times that I can't do certain things, usually resulting in me giving up. But of all the things I hope in my life, I will not give up this. I love the family I have now, but I want more for us. I want to pass on a different story.

So, for the family I hope to have someday, I'm praying for you.

And I will give you a new heart, and a new spirit I will put within you. And I will remove the heart of stone from your flesh and give you a heart of flesh.

-Ezekiel 36:26 (ESV)

And if it is evil in your eyes to serve the LORD, choose this day whom you will serve, whether the gods your fathers served in the region beyond the River, or the gods of the Amorites in whose land you dwell. But as for me and my house, we will serve the LORD.

-Joshua 24:15 (ESV)

Planner

We must be willing to be rid of the life we had planned so as to have the life that is waiting for us.

--Joseph Campbell

In high school, what kept me sane with my ever busy schedule (yes, some things never change) was my planner.

It kept everything--my schedule, notes, driving directions, photos, Post-its, Band-aids. My entire life seemed to be contained in that little day-time planner.

When I left high school, I stopped keeping time in a planner and trusted my memory to help me with my still ever busy schedule. As of late, I find that my memory is unable to hold of my daily itinerary. When I started to forget things, (and not just because I'm stressed) I broke down and bought a planner.

Although I understand that we have better, faster, sleeker tools to keep track of our time and to-do lists, I find it easier to have a planner that isn't on a computer. There is something about writing it down that helps me remember.

Now, I find myself in a similar dilemma that I had in high school: my life is again driven by action items and planned schedules. The lists keep getting longer and the time keep slipping away faster. Suddenly, it seems like the sum of my life is contained in these pages.

And I didn't plan on that.

Unfiltered Moment

I lent voice to thought and that was my mistake.

--Toby Ziegler, The West Wing

I'm usually better at filtering these things, but I'm deciding to forgo the filtering process in an effort to just get this out.

A few days ago, I realized that I hadn't posted a blog in a month. I had written things, but I couldn't bring myself to post them. To be honest, I didn't want to post the one about Ash Wednesday.

It happens nearly every single time I try to be bold and declare victory over this old Fear of mine. Once I think I've gotten somewhere, the Fear comes back with a new face and a new name, and reminds me once again to go back into my corner and remain silent.

I cannot describe the depth of how afraid I am. I can't explain why this one thing makes me immobile and useless. I'm different when this Fear comes my way; I am not myself. And it takes me a long while before I start to feel like myself again. Normal.

And I knew as soon as I posted that blog, the Fear would creep up and knock me down. This Sunday morning, I found out that I was not wrong. I was afraid and unable to ask for help. I had to keep going and keep pretending that it didn't bother me. But the entire time, I was shaking within, ready to burst at any given moment.

I knew some people very close to me would see that I was not myself. But would they understand? If I say it, make it real, would they know the depth of my fear? Would they be able to help? Would they be able to comfort me?

Would they believe me?

The Fear hurts me so much that all I want to do is cry.

I'm afraid because I do not feel safe. I'm angry because I finally found a people that I consider family and a place that I love and I don't want to leave it if we don't handle this external circumstance with integrity and sensitivity. I'm sad because there is pain here.

I know that I am strong. I know that everything will be all right. I know that there will always be another trial. Obstacles will always come; they are the constant, not the variable. I know how to deal with this. I understand this because I believe in a good God.

But for this moment, I want to break down and say that I can't do this. I want someone to prove me wrong and tell me that I'm worth loving, worth being protected, worth...something more than this awful way that I'm used to feeling. I want someone, even for just a moment, to absorb all of this pain for me and just take it away. I don't even want to be fixed; I just want to be comforted.

In the beginning, that's all I've ever wanted. And I've been searching for a long time. And whenever I come face to face with this Fear, I lose hope for the comfort that I seek.

I believe in a good God that loves me, but for this moment, I'm not certain that belief is enough.

But that is just for this moment. We'll see what happens in the next.

With All Of My Heart

I often don't get to put a lot of my heart into something.

Truly, the only time I fully express myself is at the piano. It's not a secret that I love playing piano with all of my heart. And I suppose the reason why is because it is one of the few things that I actually do with all of my heart.

Sometimes, this gets me in trouble when I play in front of people. I forget the filter and the heart is suddenly out there. In those moments, I hope that no one notices.

I don't know why it scares me to let others know what means the most to me. I save it either for the piano or this blog. At some point, I need to let the walls down, stop hiding from behind the piano and just share my heart.

But I figure that even if I find that in this process of learning how to share my heart I end up breaking it, I will always have the piano.

Welcome Landen Mauro Bishop!

I seriously love this kid. Welcome to the world, Landen!

Congratulations, Jenny and Paul!

Walking Aimlessly and Venturing into the Unknown

I love taking walks. But to be specific, I love wandering aimlessly.

I'm not much of an adventurer. I'm not one to explore. And I am not definitely not one characterized by taking risks into the unknown; at least without some type of plan.

Which bring me to my church's Women's Retreat I attended this weekend. We were at Camp Seymour (oh, 6th grade camp memories!) this year and we had about 3 hours of free time on Saturday. I opted to take a walk. Not a hike. No plan. Just aimless wandering.

I convinced two of my friends (thanks, Erin and Jessica!) to come along with me. We wandered along a trail, enjoyed the beauty of the deep colors of the Glen Cove, and discovered the Pioneer Bowl (I really need to find those camp pictures. Go Lake Youngs Grizzlies!). However, by the time we stumbled onto the now forever known as "Hobo Hut," my tolerance level for aimless wandering came to an end. In typical Abby fashion, I wanted to double back. Erin and Jessica were convinced we were close to the end of the trail and we would be back to camp soon if we just kept going. Better heads prevailed and we forged on, hoping our skills in logic and deduction rather than our rusty orienteering and would get us back home.

Eventually, we found our way. We joked about not bringing a compass or a map and laughed at our decision making skills:

Me: Hmm...the trail splits. What do you think?

Erin: [pointing to a trail] That looks good. [pause.]

Jessica: What trail marker were we following?

Me: I think it was red. [All of us look around. No red trail marker to be found.] We've got blue and white.

Jessica: Blue?

Erin: Blue. [both look at me.]

Me: Sure. Blue it is.

It's a wonder how we got back to camp. However, within that 40 minute walk, I realized a few things about myself. I'm not an advocate for wandering through life aimlessly. We should be engaged in life. We should have purpose in the way we choose to live our lives. We can't wander aimlessly forever.

I am fearful of wandering from my routine-driven life. I'm afraid I will be lost in my adventure; that I will not find my way back home. I would opt to retreat and go back the way I came rather than keep going forward and find a way out. As much as I would like to take a risk, I often don't.

What beautiful discoveries would I have missed if I didn't wander from my routine-driven life? Is there such a thing as living life a little too safe?

I will not walk about my life aimlessly, but risking a walk into the unknown every once in awhile may be worth the adventure.

Square Buildings, Ash Wednesday, and Beauty

They shall build up the ancient ruins;

they shall raise up the former devastations;
they shall repair the ruined cities,
the devastations of many generations.

--Isaiah, Isaiah 61:4 (ESV)

I apologize...this is going to be a long one.

In a sudden split-second decision, I attended St. Stephen's for Ash Wednesday.

I'm not sure why I decided to attend. This wasn't like Christmas--I was not obligated to go. By grace, I was saved from the certain awkward moments of attending Christmas Mass with my family at St. Stephen's. However, since then, I couldn't shake this notion that I needed to go. I needed to see. And I needed to go alone.

I should mention that the year I left St. Stephen's, the church was voting on remodeling the church building. The building we had occupied was a gray block of concrete on a considerably large tract of land. Basically, it was just an enormous square. I'm not entirely sure of what was originally planned for that building--I had heard rumors that it was originally supposed to be a gym or a school. Whatever the case, St. Stephen's was housed in a building that was never supposed to be a church.

To accommodate for what it lacked in typical church exterior glamour, St. Stephen's had a lot of space. The carpet was blue, the pews were of dark wood, and the only natural light came through the windows we had placed in the ceiling around the early 90's.

This what I remembered: St. Stephen's was a dark place with a lot of space.

And so, in the year before I left, we had little scale models to display the various phases for the church renovation project. Back then, I couldn't quite envision what it would look like, but I knew that at the end of the project, my mom would still sit in the same pew and park her car in the same spot. If we had stayed, I'm sure I would have won that bet.

In the years since I left St. Stephen's, I never saw the building after it was remodeled. And now, on this Ash Wednesday, I saw the remodeled building for the first time.

The gray block of concrete still housed the main sanctuary, but the numerous annexes and additions hid the original exterior I had remembered from my youth. The pews were of a lighter shade of wood, the walls were white, the flooring was light. My heels (of course) clicked on the tiled floor of the narthex instead of sinking into the plush carpet from the 70's. Natural light poured in through the windows that surrounded the halls. And even though there were too many people at Mass for me to be sure, I was certain that some evil genius of architecture had made the square building seem circular.

This was beyond different--this was unrecognizable.

Some things did stay the same. The first person I ran into was a member of the church council that had forbidden me to return. She recognized me immediately and gave me a look that asked, "Are you sure you're supposed to be here?" Fortunately, she didn't say anything--at least to my knowledge. The choir was still led by the same guy, and the piano player still took off his shoes when he played the organ--which, incidentally, hadn't budged an inch.

Despite the mix of new and old, everything just seemed surreal.

Shortly after receiving the ashes, I ducked out early. There was one place I had to see: the basement.

The doors were closed off; but not under lock and key. A wall stood in its place, permanently sealing off the room that housed one of my most traumatic memories. I stood there, staring at this fake wall, wondering how this wall came to be and where the current basement resided. Soon, my imagination ran wild--if I somehow found the magic, secret doorway through this wall, would I walk into a world frozen in time? Would that little girl inside of me be found screaming for help?

All dramatic wanderings aside, I came upon this basic truth:

The St. Stephen's I had remembered and feared no longer exists in reality.

In essence, it's over.

I understand that God didn't build over this cold church building just for me. But in this moment of spontaneity, He showed me in a very tangible way what I already intuitively knew: this dark place that used to St. Stephen's no longer exists. He literally built over the cold building and sealed off the dark places. What was rebuilt upon these ruins would somehow bring Him glory.

The metaphor could not be more poignant. And the way God is writing my story is is far more than what I could ever produce on my own.

The young girl I had been--the one who was fragile and alone and scared and lonely--no longer exists in this reality. God has let His light in this once cold heart of mine. The dark places are closed off and healed over.

What was rebuilt upon the ruins of my heart will bring Him glory.

And there will be beauty among these ashes.

The Spirit of the Lord GOD is upon me, because the LORD has anointed me to bring good news to the poor; he has sent me to bind up the brokenhearted, to proclaim liberty to the captives, and the opening of the prison to those who are bound; to proclaim the year of the LORD’s favor, and the day of vengeance of our God; to comfort all who mourn; to grant to those who mourn in Zion—to give them a beautiful headdress instead of ashes, the oil of gladness instead of mourning, the garment of praise instead of a faint spirit; that they may be called oaks of righteousness, the planting of the LORD, that he may be glorified.

--Isaiah, Isaiah 61:1-3 (ESV)

Duets

On my way home from my closing shift tonight, I was enchanted by a beautiful classical piano duet.

I know: Nerd.

This particular duet was a seamless union. They sounded like one; complimenting each other's styles, techniques, and expressions.

I suppose that is all that anyone really hopes in a duet--musical or otherwise. Each person is great on their own right, but when joined, it is beauty.

They're better when they're together.

The piece was Felix Mendelssohn's Concerto in E for Two Pianos. The duet was Hogward and Christopher, along with the Bavarian Chamber Philharmonic. I understand the details may be boring, but the piece was beautifully done. I invite you to listen. Really. You might enjoy it.

Noisy Living and Being Still

It took me all weekend, but I finally found some time to stay still.

But to be honest, the way to be still found me.

Tonight, I attended the Compline Service at St. Mark's Cathedral in Seattle. I can't even describe this delightful experience. The Compline Choir was amazing. It was beautiful. It was moving.

And for a half an hour, I was still. I was at rest. I was with my God. I just...was.

I am amazed at the beauty that can be evoked by music. The moment was so peaceful; quiet. And in that short time, I was overwhelmed by God's love. As I write this, I realize that my heart can't contain this kind of love.

These are the kind of moments that you wish would last forever.

When I left St. Mark's, I was confronted by how noisy my life has become. I couldn't even stand to have the radio on during my drive home. I didn't want the peaceful moment to end. But I knew that soon enough, my life would be filled by demanding distractions, urgent matters, constant thoughts, and compounding responsibilities.

It would be foolish to try to make this singular moment last forever. I experienced the goodness of being still, of being in the presence of His peace, of being overcome by God's love. It may take some time to learn how to push the noise of my life away on a regular basis and to find those moments to stay still before God. But after this experience of rest, I am finding that the choice to be still with God is one that is always worth making.

Be still and know that I am God. I will be exalted among the nations, I will be exalted in the earth.

--David, Psalm 46:10

The Compline Choir sings on Sunday evenings at 9:30 at St. Mark's Cathedral in Seattle. You may also hear the service live on King FM (98.1 FM).

Treasured Past

In my attempt to regain some perspective, I ended up in the music store in my Hometown.

I wasn't expecting to buy any music, but of course, I ended up with three classical pieces (Beethoven, Chopin, and Liszt). I rushed over to my grandparents's house for Family Dinner, anxiously awaiting a chance to try the pieces on the piano.

Sadly, excitement gave way to frustration. My fingers don't move in the same way. I repeatedly ran over the difficult passages through Liszt's Hungarian Rhapsody No. 2, only to end up with my fingers aching due to lack of use.

My cousin JJ was also at dinner, and catching my nostalgic mood, he and I went on a search for a time gone by. It started out as a search of our Nintendo NES (JJ only found the game cartridges) and I came across, of course, my old books. We also found some videotapes of movies my uncle Ned had recorded when the family used to have HBO. I also uncovered my grandfather's Olivetti typewriter. (Yes, typing on that beautiful machine is art. And as JJ can attest to, it uses finger muscles he didn't know he had!)

But the real treasure was a box of piano music that JJ found. I poured over the music, my excitement returning. I returned to the piano and tried out the pieces I used to play with perfection.

And yet, I came to find that my fingers still don't move in the same way.

I'm not sure why it upsets me so much.

Toward the end of Family Dinner, I started to enjoy playing those familiar piano pieces, mistakes included. It was a treasured time in my past; when music filled a large portion of my life. And those precious pieces that sum up my childhood now again reside in the piano bench at my grandparents's house, right where they belong; ready to be found the next time I'm up for a nostalgic visit.

Dance of Joy

It's been a long December, and a frustratingly torturous two months. But after a long winter season of foolishness, I came to this realization...

...dance anyway.

Welcome back, Dance of Joy.

After much prayer from my friends, a convicting and uplifting lecture at BSF yesterday (Monday) night, and a few conversations sharing a common theme, I was finally brought to the point where I just yearned to hear from God.

Holy Spirit, won't you help me understand? Holy Spirit, won't you say a prayer for me with your groanings?

--Jennifer Knapp, "Trinity"

I was reading 1 John 2:9-11 and realized that there was so much bitterness and hatred in my heart. I had become so blinded by my foolishness that it was clear why I had no direction. I could see nothing but my bitterness. Once I let it go, the answer seemed so simple. So easy.

And I haven't stopped smiling since.

Thank You, Lord Jesus, for bringing me this far. Thank you that you are always at work--especially when I cannot see the answers to my prayers. I am encouraged by your love. May you strengthen my faith for your glory.

Let us not become weary in doing good, for at the proper time, we will reap a harvest if we do not give up.

--Paul, Galatians 6:9 (NIV)

Dance of joy, may you never end.

Rebuilding on a Fountain of Tears

Carry each other's burdens, and in this way you will fulfill the law of Christ.

--Paul, Galatians 6:2

I think it's getting to the point where I can be myself again.

--Steven Page & Stephen Duffy, "Call and Answer"

Hmmm...my blog titles are getting longer and longer. I will try to remedy that next time.

I don't like crying in front of other people. And since I can't hide in public, it's a nightmare when I can't stop crying and I still have to play piano in front of a group of people that I see every Sunday morning.

Thankfully, most of the time, no one notices.

But today, I was an emotional wreck. I got up on stage and did the best I could to play the song while trying to wipe away my tears without attracting attention. However, after the song had ended, I couldn't stop crying.

Apparently, even after all my mental processing the past several weeks, I still needed to cry. Crying, I suppose, has its merits. My mind can ferret out what ails me. My mind can work out the solution to the problem. But sometimes, my heart can't catch up with my mind, and crying seems to be the only thing that helps.

I don't like crying in front of people. But I know how blessed I am to have people around me who don't mind. I am thankful for my friends who sit with me when I can't stop crying and take the time to sit with me and listen to me. And I am even more grateful for the grace they extend when all I have to offer are my tears.

Failure doesn't always mean defeat. Crying doesn't always mean I've failed.

Now that the crying has ceased, the hard work begins. I am grateful for those who walk by me to help me back up onto my feet and encourage me to try again.

Now it's time to prove that you've come back here to rebuild.

--Steven Page and Stephen Duffy, "Call and Answer"

Ebenezers In Midst of Disappointing Discouragement

Don't tell me what I can't do.

--Ben Linus** to John Locke, LOST "The Brig"

Ebenezer: a memorial, usually established to remember what God has done for a person or a group of people.

I've been thinking about the past year.

It always amazes me that only a year has gone by. I can't even recount all that has happened in a year; at times, it feel likes like that it seemed that a lifetime had passed between memories.

This time last year, I was anxious about many certain changes in the horizon. This time last year, my heart would be changed and music would reenter my life. This time last year, I had many hopes--some of which had come into fruition and others that have yet to be fulfilled.

However, in the past several weeks, I had been disappointed and discouraged. What I had hoped for seemed to be out of reach and slipping away, and I didn't know if trying mattered any longer. I refused to quit, but I wasn't engaging in the battle to continue, either.

I suppose the biggest reason why looking back means so much to me is that I was near ready to give up on certain things that I have wanted for so long. And somehow, it is in remembering how far I've come that helps me put my life in a more encouraging perspective.

Lord God, you are always at work and you have brought me this far. I pray you will forgive me for the times when I despair in my disappointment. I wait in eager expectation to see where You will take me next. When faced with doubt, may I have faith. When I am faced with despair, may I always choose hope.

Especially when people tell me that I can't.

**Ok. I know that I should give Locke the credit for the quote above, especially since this repeated phrase is mostly attributed to him. But I'm on Team Ben--would you expect anything different from me?

The Joy of Navy Issue Pea Coats and Feeling Young

It's not a secret that I absolutely adore my grandfather.

Sometime in November, my grandfather made a comment about my pea coat. I've had my coat for years, but apparently it was new to him.

Suddenly, his eyes glazed over as his mind ran through his memories of a time gone by. He reminisced about his time in the Navy, and mentioned that he had a pea coat similar to mine when he was a cadet. He noted the buttons of my coat, and with a stern face and a flicker of a smile, he said disapprovingly, "Abby, this isn't Navy issue. The buttons are wrong."

Apparently, Navy issue pea coat buttons have anchors on them.

At my cousin's New Year's Eve party, he came in with a smile on his face. I told him that I admired his new shirt. He took me by the hand and said, "I also got a new coat."

And with childlike glee, he proudly showed me his new Navy issue pea coat, perfect down to the button.

I love it when he's happy.

I celebrated with him and his new found joy. I even asked him to model his new coat. He laughed at my request, saying that I don't need a picture commemorating a coat that makes him feel like a cadet. I told him that may be true, but I do want a picture commemorating him feeling young again. Finally, he relented to a picture. And, of course, I took advantage of the rare opportunity when my grandfather would pose for a picture, and took two:

I think my grandfather would still make a very handsome cadet.