The speckles are really more like ridges

I don't lie on my floor and stare at the ceiling enough. My current life is not conducive to this.

Reason #1) Colorado is not a state that encourages you to lie on the floor and stare at the ceiling. 300+ sunny days! Mountains in your backyard! Zero humidity and refreshing breezes! You feel guilty for running errands, emptying the dishwasher, being inside for any reason, like you're wasting a perfect day.

Reason #2) I wake up at 7, arrive at work by 8:30. Write and design and generally be creative until 5:30. Home by 5:45 to eat dinner and be out the door by 6:10 for dance or shortly thereafter for other regularly scheduled activities. I often don't get home until around 10, when I usually check my email, tidy my room, tuck in my roommate. Then bed for me. Breathe.

BUT...
For the past 4 days it has rained nonstop. We are under flash flood warnings. The temperature is a damp 65 degrees and the thick white brightness of a cloudy day pours in my window. It is yucky. And for once, I do not feel guilty for being inside. It is not a perfect day.

And so I spent considerable time this morning lying on the floor staring at the ceiling. I loved every second of it.

Land of the Free From?

Today is July 4th. Today we are suppposed to remember that we are free. Today we tend to focus less on what we are "free from" but what we are "free to"--free to worship anything, free to disagree with the President, free to waste our time, our money, our lives, free to decide how we decide. In the great span of culture and time, it's quite an unusual position, the freedom to live how we like. And so we celebrate with mass quanities of juicy griled beef, fresh ripe strawberries, sugar-sweet corn-on-the-cob, triple-scooped ice cream cones. Great food is a blessing. So is "freedom to". But really, "freedom from" is the most mind-boggling concept of all. Freedom from sin, freedom from fear, freedom from death, freedom from crippling anxieties, freedom from destructive lusts. "Freedom from" is a gift, one that cost Him dearly. Only by exploring "freedom from" can we properly appreciate the "freedom to" that most Americans think is an irrevocable right. So many people practicing their "freedom to" are anything but free. And those of us who, with wide eyes, have accepted the gift of "freedom from" must exercise our "freedom to" and share that gift. Maybe accompanied by a nice scoop of ice cream.

YOU try to milk a pissed-off cow

Last night a group of us went to the Working Ranch Cowboy Association Rodeo. It was fantastic...and I took 181 photos! I know! I couldn't believe it either. I got a few good shots. Many of them came out blurry--lots of frantic motion at a rodeo, and me with my little point-and-shoot digital--but I was able to salvage the best blurry ones with the help of my Photoshop filter friends. Click on the Snappy Snaps link to see some of them.

My favorite thing about last night's festivities was that all of cowboys competing are real manure-shoveling, calf-birthing, working cowboys. These aren't show-boys; they actually do chores similar to the events they compete in. It's such a far cry from my 25 years of suburbia, but it was made more real knowing that day in, day out, these cowboys are making a living with the very skills I just cheered for. And that makes me appreciate it even more.

If John the Baptist were a Redneck Rapper...

My name is John the Baptist (I’m a Presbyterian.)
I spend my day a’dunkin’ sinners in the searing sun.

My suit is made of camel; a camel made my suit.
My favorite snack is locusts—you should try ‘em…sure beats fruit!

First ya wash ‘em in the river (they’re less chewy when they’re wetter)
Then a dip in wild honey…yep, the wilder the better!

People come from every corner to my desert dipping spot.
Most jump in to please Jehovah; Some jump in because it’s hot.

I tell them that He’s coming, one who’s wilder than me.
We’re not worthy of his toenails, yet He’ll die to set us free.

I tell ya, He’s a-comin’! Just repent, for goodness sake!
He’ll baptize you as I do, but with spirit, not with lake.

And for those who choose to follow Him, it’s not an easy way.
Who knows? Your head might even wind up neckless on a tray.

NAH!

I’ve got a strong suspicion, if you follow, you’ll be poor.
But, bet your bottom dollar, it’s adventure, that’s for sure!

For He’ll wow you more than money can, and you’ll get your reward
Here on earth and then in Heaven: You’ll be kickin’ with the Lord!

How Beautiful the Hands

She sings with her fingers,
Silent poetry, slicing and carving the air,
Hands fluttering like a bird.
Announcing in a gesture, proclaiming without a sound
The thunderous majesty of our King.

In this borrowed language of motion,
She dips and she raises her hands up in praise.
Sustaining a gesture, repeating one twice.

A caress for her Father,
She offers her hands as music
To those who linger in silence.

When the Lord seems quiet,
When I pray for His voice,
He is faithful to answer:
He gives me a sign.

New pics!

Hey there, all you peeps with nothing better to do! I've just posted a bunch of new pictures on my Flickr--my favorite "photography" from the past few months. Hope you enjoy...and if you do, please let me know!

Just click on the snappy snaps link in the right column for the fun to begin!

He loves me, I know it.

As I pull my hair back to wash my face, I can smell the day on my skin. Campfire, damp grass, sunshine. It’s not a bad smell. It smells of happy days, of sunny days, of busy, friendly, early summer days.

No, I know what it smells like…it smells like blessings.

The Saddest Day of All Time

He’s dead.

He’s dead. How can he be dead???

Oh, God…He’s DEAD.

He was supposed to be our king. He was going to save us all. But now he’s dead. How can he save us if He’s dead?

Oh, God…HOW CAN HE BE DEAD?

Where is our hope now? He was our hope, but how can he be now? He is wrapped from head to toe in linen, cold, without breath, laid in a cold, dark cave. There is no life in that cave.

And here we sit, mourning and weeping the man who would have been our king. Was he even who we thought he was? Why didn’t he save himself? Why??? He brought people back to life countless times…how hard would it have been to free himself from that cross, to show those hypocrites who he was once and for all? No one could have doubted him then. They all would have fallen on their faces, crying out for mercy to the one they had just crucified. What better opportunity?

Father in heaven, why have You forsaken us? Why did you bring us this man who would be our king, only to take him away in utter disgrace? We saw his works and signs…who but the Son of God could have performed such miracles? And yet you allowed his own people to put him to death. They chose a common criminal over him and demanded his innocent hands be pierced. His was the death of the scum of the Earth. Where is your mercy, O God?

What do we do now, Father? Who will choose to follow his teachings when, in the end, we’re all the same—dead. Oh, they’ll say he was a wise teacher; they’ll say he did great works. They’ll even say he was Your prophet. But with those very statements, they will dismiss him. Who can believe that the Son of God eternal would be as limited by time as the poorest beggar in Judea?

In my heart of hearts, I know that he came for a purpose bigger than his brief time with us, but God, I am so lost now. My heart aches with this sorrow and my eyes fill every time I think of his face. The light in his eyes haunts me every time I try to sleep. Father, he can’t be dead! Your hand was in this, I know. The noon sky was black as night at the hour of his death; the curtain in the temple was ripped in two by unseen hands. Surely You are not finished with him yet. Surely there is more for him here, here with us.

Oh God of Abraham, God of my fathers, hear my cry. Why, God? Oh, why, my Lord? How can he be dead? How can he be dead? Will I ever feel joy again?

Longings

I don't know your name.
I don't know where you live or what you do.

Are you fearless?
Do you speak German?
Did the full force of God hit you square between the eyes one day,
or has it been a long, slow dance?

The only thing I know is that the shimmer and hue of your soul
brings the glow out in mine.

And we'll talk.
Oh, how we'll talk!

A Psalm for My Love IV

Even if I don’t know what it means to love you, even if I don’t know how to love you, Lord, You’ve never left me. Thank You. Thank You. Thank You, Father. You loved me first. Thank You, Lord.

Father, how freeing is Your love! You’ve traded my shackles for wings, a prison for flight. So many times in each day I forget this and behave as if I still bore all my own burdens: things to accomplish, situations to control, and an endless fatigue and disappointment when I can’t do it all to my unrealistic expectations. But through You, Jesus, I am released. Released from my own standards and the world’s. Released from worry. Released to Joy.


Released to Joy

Running as fast as I can through life
Each day blurs by,
Leaving an impression rather than a memory.
Eternity is mine,
Although you wouldn’t know it by watching.
Slowly, slowly, My child.
Everyday is a gift I give.
Don’t let life steal My joy from you.

Just as You promised—a way out.
Our victory over death
You cleverly hid in a man condemned—for who would guess that death would die through death?

***

Oh Father! Remind me each day:
--That You forgive me forever
--That You are bigger than suffering and bigger than sin
--That You are with me no matter where and no matter what
--That You have released me to joy

Never let me forget that You love me, not for anything I’ve done or will do, but because I am Your Gwen. And that is enough.

In Jesus’ precious name, I lift this all up to You. May it bless You, Father.

I love You. Happy Valentine’s Day.

A Psalm for My Love III

When my heart is breaking You hold the pieces. When my spirit is exhausted, You support me. When I feel so alone, You surround me. There is no place I could go that You wouldn’t have been there first, preparing for me, awaiting me, waiting to embrace me.

With Thou

When troubles at my door do pound,
And fear and weakness swirl around,
My heart will tremble; still I know
With Thou before me I shall go

I step up to the airy edge
And peer down from this crumbling ledge.
I wish to run, but still I know
With Thou beside me I shall go

My past creeps up on me at night,
Confronts me with more wrong than right
My soul feels black but still I know
With Thou behind me I shall go

The door flings open, blinding light
Surrounds me. I give up the fight.
The price is paid so that I’ll know
With Thou within me I shall go.

A Psalm for My Love II

Over and over, you forgive me. Before I was born, before I was thought of, You had forgiven me. How can we fully understand that it’s nothing that we’ve done? That it doesn’t matter how good we are on the surface, for we are all sinners through and through. Yet You overcame that and You, sometimes gently, sometimes abruptly, lead us to that realization—that You are bigger than sin and pain and suffering, even if You sometimes have to use sin and pain and suffering to get our attention.

Suit of Sin

I wear a suit of sin that squeezes on my heart. Some days it’s so tight, I feel as if my heart would break. And break it does, over and over again. But there is beauty in its brokenness, for as it bursts, it pours forth light. As it shatters, I am fixed. The bigger the break, the more I am filled by something better than myself. And it hurts, oh how it hurts. But the One who made me lives in my heart and nothing could be better than to slough the dull casing and allow the Love that formed the universe, the Love that sacrificed all, flow like blood in my veins, shine like a torch into my darkness.

A Psalm for My Love I

My roommate and I, being single, decided to dedicate Valentine's Day to God and wrote psalms to celebrate His love. Here's mine, broken into parts cuz it's LOOOONG! It fits together really well, though, so if you have a spare 15 mins, I recommend reading it all together! The structure is pretty much intro, then a poem, then a transition then another poem or bit of free verse...

***

What is a day dedicated to love if it is not a day dedicated to Christ? For who could truly love without Him? We, dirty in our sin, would be forever separated from the Author of love. We could never be reconciled to God without the ultimate price of His son, the death that gives us new life each day, life without limit, regardless of what we’ve done.

77 x 7

Chance after chance and time after time,
I’ve stumbled on my feet
and fallen on my face.

But I’ll have to ask for forgiveness again,
For tomorrow’s a new day…


And here I come crawling back to You
So full of shame I can’t look at You
But You knew this from the beginning of time
You’ve waited to say, “Come to Me, love, you’re mine.
I’ve got your heart in My hands—you’ll be fine.
It’s all part of My grand design.”

And You knew this,
Didn’t You?

The Water Bearer

“No,” He pushes my hand away, weakly but with certainty. “I don’t need it. I’m fine.”

Even as he speaks, his lips are cracking. His skin looks dusty, and his hair is falling out in chunks. “Goway,” he slurs. As he stumbles to get up, my eyes gloss over. Three tears fall to earth and are gobbled up by the thirsty ground. Would that my friend do the same…

I am the Water Bearer, even when the thirsty do not choose to drink. I cannot force them, like that old proverb about horses says. But in this case, I cannot lead them anywhere; I come to them. My gift is free and my gift is for all. But most people don’t realize that their lips are bleeding, that their eyes are dilated, their skin hardening. Everything around them is withering and dying; to them everything’s normal. They do not realize they need water to live.

“Friend, take this cup. It will help, I promise.” I extend my hand once again.

“I said NO!” He struggles to shift from his knee to standing, his supporting leg swaying like a palm on the beach. “I’m not thirsty!” he croaks. “I just need to stand up…”

With each cup I offer comes the promise of restoration, rejuvination, replenishment. The water refreshes not only the tongue but slides its way between the cells of the body, plumping and repairing—my water fills the empty spaces.

He grabs for that tree, for those rocks, something solid to pull himself up with, but they are useless mirages. He looks around, but we are alone in this wasteland, save another man, tiny on the horizon. He slumps back to the ground, aware for the first time that standing is hard without help. “Maybe just a little,” he mumbles. I hold out the cup again. He draws it to his face, eyes trained on the ground the entire time. But instead of drinking it, he lifts the cup high and pours my water over his head. Little rivers stream down his face, and he closes his eyes. His parched lips part in a crack of a smile. But even as I watch, the water disappears, evaporating into the arid desert air. His smile fades as the cool is replaced by the same old dryness. Except this time, because he knows water now, he can feel it. He thrusts the empty glass at me, waggling it around. “More!” he cries, as the heat returns. He still avoids my gaze.

My cup is not to be taken lightly. My cup is not to be squandered. It revives so long as it is truly tasted. Occasional splashes do nothing but make misery more apparent. My water refills, but you must offer your body, your vessel, to be refilled. It is a commitment.

“Friend, so long as you choose to waste my water, you will never be satisfied for long. The water must become a part of you. Please drink.” I offer him the glass, refilled to the brim, but he just sits there. I know what he’s thinking—who are you to tell me what to do? I just needed a little refreshing. One more glass to splash on my face and I’ll be fine. But I know he’s also thinking about how fleeting the pleasure was, and how, even after that, he can’t stand up. He reaches out and accepts my offer. As the cup trembles toward his lips, light sparkles off the water. The reflection dances on his face and I smile.

I refill his cup as quickly as he drains it. Over and over, in great gulps he drinks, like a man falling in love for the first time. He doesn’t waste a drop.

He looks up at me with new eyes, glistening now instead of dull. I can see my reflection in them as I extend my hand. “Come.” I point into the distance. “I think our friend over there is thirsty…”

Dancing on Dust

The essence of wealth and the perfume of diamonds
Eludes us but sirens its song on the wind.

And we reach, how we grasp, for the treasures our senses
Can gather and measure and finger and spend.

But at once, in a breath, we are naked and empty
How naked and empty are we in a breath.

And the things of this earth that we swore by, now rubble.
The perfume of pleasure stinks plainly of death.

For no matter how solid the world seems around us,
We’re dancing on visions of dust all the same.

But for us, there’s a light with more substance than granite,
And for us, that light has a name.

Only in my house...

*Please keep in mind that I live in a white, Southern Baptist household in Georgia.

Tonight Heather and I were having dinner with my parents. The other two girls were off at various events. We'd just about finished eating our pork stew when Dad looked over at Mom and said, "Should we tell them about CHINESE-CHINESE-CHINESE?" "Oh," replied my mother. "You mean the CHINESE-CHINESE?" "Yes," Dad answered. "I think CHINESE-CHINESE-CHINESE."

Allow me to point out that CHINESE-CHINESE is, in fact, real Chinese. My parents were speaking Mandarin over our heads.

I'm almost 25, but at that moment I felt like a little kid whose parents opt to spell out choice words in dinner conversation. "Don't mention that we have C-A-K-E or she won't finish her P-E-A-S." My focus switched from Dad to Mom and back again but, not speaking a word of Chinese myself, I had no clue what they were talking about. Something about that strikes me as unfair--I am an adult now, after all. But as Mom loves to tell anyone who'll listen: "Whoever said life was fair?"

Such is life in the Phillips family. Surreal.

The 5 Phillips femmes

"You're seeing a rare event," my dad always informs people. "All of the girls together at once." Inevitably, he announces this a few times before the evening is over, a note of pride in his voice. And often, a hint of a tear in his voice as well. He adores having all girls. As a word of warning, if you are ever over for dinner with the entire family, the "rare-ness" of the evening will be impressed upon you, too. Even if you don't care. Even if you don't comment on it. It doesn't matter.

As a group, we are insane. Giggles ring through the house, though we're often not sure what's so funny. Or at least, we won't be able to explain it. We are just sisters; we share funny bones as well as parents. "I'm going CWISMAS CWAZY!!!" Kate yells, flailing about and tossing her hair like a rock star before collapsing on the floor. The rest of us can barely breathe for laughter, and we watch the video of her performance over and over (thanks to the advances in digital cameras, Cwismas Cwazy will live on in infamy!). Countless times throughout our week together, you can find us in a lump, piled on top of each other on a couch. Somtimes chatting, but mainly just enjoying being close.

Right now, Heather and I are sitting shoulder to shoulder on the couch in the den, laptops open. She's reading columns on Townhall.com and chatting on IM. I'm writing this entry. We are the geeks of the group--she's a computer science major at Georgia Tech, so I adamantly proclaim that she's the premier geek, though I can't deny that I make my living with my computer. Heather takes no crap. She's a tough cookie who might very well intimidate me if we weren't related. But she's become a true friend over the past year, especially since we share an intense love for swing dancing, and I miss her fiercely when I'm away.

Kate has "popular cooties," as my dad likes to say. She can do anything, no matter how dorky, and somehow remain cool. Just the other day, she ordered bagles at Panera with a lisp, on a dare from a coworker. "Thix bagelth with a thmear, pleath...Yeth, that'th good." Smile. I wouldn't be surprised if the cashier wanted to ask for her phone number anyway. Who can explain popularity? You either have it or you don't. And Kate does.

Madeleine is truly an angel. She'll give you the shirt off her back then crochet you a scarf if you're still cold. Every request at dinner--"Could someone get me the hot sauce?"--has an implied "Madeleine" following it. And she always complies without complaint. She takes out the trash, washes the dishes, is number one in her high school class, and dances like a dream. Like I said, she's an angel.

And then there's my momma. What a perfect match she is for my father. Even though she and my dad married long before they became Christians, watching them together reminds me of how God works everything for good. She is fiesty, yelling at the guests on Fox News shows, sighing in disgust over columns in the AJC. She is mild, holding her tongue when one of us snaps at her, and completely diffusing the situation in the process. She is wise, my little momma, and I would gladly accept her offer of a "core dump," a concept she has dreamed up where she could simply funnel all her life experiences and the knowledge of 55 years into my thirsty brain. I'd be unstoppable!

So there we are, all 5 of us. I'm assuming you know me, so I'll spare you the details. I have been blessed with a dear family. Dad's another entry all together (not in a bad way). This one's devoted to the ladies in my life. Take a good long look--after all, it's a rare event.

Crushed

It appears there's no away around it. I've tried everything. You simply can't fall in love God without spending significant amounts of time alone with Him. I've tried praying over every morsel that's about to go in my mouth. Nope. I've tried closing my eyes and singing my heart out at church. Nuh-uh. I've tried going to church twice on Sundays. No.

All these things have caused me to develop a serious crush on God. I suppose that's better than hating or ignoring Him. But the thing about crushes is that they're more about you than about the person you're crushing on. A crush is based on scraps of fact, yes, but supplemented by heaping portions of idealism, concocted by your own brain.

Crushes crackle with emotional electricity--volts and volts and VOLTS of it. You see him drive by--SURGE. He doesn't call--DRAIN. But wait...is that an email from him?--SURGE! Is that him at the movies with HER???--DRAIN (well, this one's accompanied by a surge of its own: rage, jealousy, sorrow...take your pick). It is inevitable that, continued at this pace, something will blow.

Crushes fluctuate. You may have multiple crushes at once; they wax and wane depending on your mood, the weather, who you're hanging out with that day, who you decide you'd like to be that day. How many times have you remembered a past crush and thought, "What was I thinking?" Constant they are not.

Love it most certainly is not.

"Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It is not rude, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres." 1 Corinthians 13:4-7

Earlier I mentioned that having a crush on God was perhaps better than hating or ignoring Him, but allow me to correct myself. Because what is a crush if not a lukewarm sentiment? It runs hot and it runs cold. Take random samples, combine, and stir, and there you have it: lukewarm. He will spit me from His mouth, He tells me. No thank you. I've seen the world on the other side of heaven...not a place I desire to travel on my own.

I want my love for God to burn so hot, it purifies everything I think, everything I do, everything I touch. I want my love for my Abba to be so transparent that people look at me and wonder at how like my Father I am. I want my love for my Lord to make Him smile always and to compel me daily to discover ways to make that smile even broader. I want this love to be so transforming that I barely remember the me from my past; it merely flickers around in the shadows of my head, like an old film of someone else I knew once. I'm sick of fickle. I'm sick of empty passion, spurred on by a moving word or a powerful chord. I'm ready for love: deep, constant, holy, true love. My God, my shepherd, will You lead me there?

yes, my love. grab on.

Exodus 20:3

With special thanks to the women at the retreat this weekend...

Released

I bow and bend and seek to please
my god without a face.
I say I'm Yours but with my life I lie;
You are replaced.

My God, my God, though I forsake
Your offer to direct my days,
You love me still--in spite of me--
and You alone deserve my praise.

My lips I part and words flow out--
in speech, You I proclaim.
But do they echo in my soul
or am I yours in only name?

The master that instead I serve
desires not to set me free.
With fear and lies in whispered tones,
it binds me in captivity.

But in Your boundless, ceaseless grace
You show me holy light,
and, blinking, I accept Your hand
and step out of my self-made night...