J'aime l'automne, avec ses feuilles flamboyantes.

Yesterday morning I sat perched on the extra blankets piled on my bed, watching leaves whip around the window pane and ashy clouds sluggishly drag themselves across the sky like reluctant children heeding the honk of the schoolbus. I could smell something warm and delicious baking downstairs and a new article was balanced on my lap, waiting for my distracted fingers to tap the rest of it onto the screen. I always forget how much I am in love with fall; I lust for it unabashedly. The whole feel of it enthralls me--carved pumpkins on porch steps, festivals advertised in the reader submissions I edit at the Times, hot maple candy, pumpkin pie donuts from DD (a new found bit of bliss!), the hushy lullaby of the wind putting me to sleep night after night, the leaves crunching beneath hurried footsteps racing out the door every morning, the way my nose gets frostbite if I step outside too long without proper attire, the heaviness of my old, long gray coat snapping against my legs, the bleak, wind-scrubbed, vulnerable look of mountains quietly becoming visible through thinning woods. Right now, steam from my coffee cup is being silhouetted against brown, orange, scuttling leaves pattering on the sloped roof outside my little window, and there is a decided woodsmoke smell from the wood stove in the basement, finally being put to use after long, hot months of celibacy.

Last night, my sisters and I went to a Halloween party at the cafe where I work on the weekends. We sat at a high little table, making fun of the long-haired Michael Jackson wannabe from Ferrum College slobbering all over his microphone, and self-consciously patting at our own costumes. It was fascinating to see my coworkers dressed up! We all enthused over costume contests and ate pumpkin pie, and clapped along to a new band formed by some people we knew from the theatre while the more anti-social students clustered outside in the frosty night air, clouding it up with cigarette smoke. I'm a 1940's reporter this year, and, at long last, have in my possession a glorious black Guy Noir fedora. I'm so excited! It fits quite nicely. I was sitting, minding my own business, and this gent dressed like the Phantom came up and said, "Would the lady care to dance?" Flustered and regretful that dancing has been rather low on my study priority as of late, crowded out by Islam, the French irregular verbs, and citations from English class, I hesitantly took his gloved hand and he very patiently showed me familiar dances. After stepping on his toes and knocking his knees and generally bumbling around, he talked to us and it turns out that he is a Civil War reenactor. That sort of thing is big around here. He was very informative and walked us through nineteenth century dance etiquette.

We left in the shivering late hours, calling goodbye to people we knew from town, chattering and gossiping like shameless old women. Today, I help out with a fall festival at church and Monday the whole English class is going to have a party. Fancy me bashing around campus in my Halloween attire; it will be great fun!

Liturgy

To those sweet dreams which make the mind awaken, honeyed with the wine of intimacy...you must wait. Bide your time. I will come for you when my belaboring shadows have forgotten their past scars and when I know arms strong enough to hold me will catch my fall.

To the skeptics who watch me with eyes poised to strike, mentally noting every move as a reputation blossoms into awareness...I will not apologize. For anything. I know what I'm about.

To the quiet-faced figments of language, phonetic noises blurring like radio static in my head next to the gently-pillowed caricatures of beloved characters slowly becoming a reality, at least to my own eyes...thank you for waiting. I am coming for you.

To maturity...kick aside the clinging apron strings and let me know what it feels like to stand erect on my own two feet. Don't let my compulsive emotions abuse you; let me not hurt you, but rather embrace you.

To the long, echoic hallways of academia, hung with dust and filled with the sound of contemplative pages turning...I come prepared for your benediction.

To old voices pulling me back into wrong turns, gloomy rooms filled with the bones of smashed purpose and guilt, musty air smelling unobtrusively like peppermint...don't you dare touch me. You know who you are. Keep away. Keep hidden in your black cloaks and sugar-coated words. I know who I am--I don't need you to define me.

To the authentic self kicked down by seasons of flaunted pride, shame, and ruined relationships...keep slashing my facades and clawing to the surface. Keep surviving so that you may sympathize with the tears of others who merely need a listening ear.

And to the dear soul whose love I have scorned, rejected, cried over, yearned for, and sought after...please don't give it to anyone else. I know you're out there, in whatever form. Please wait for me. Hear my voiceless inquiries and read the words I place between the lines, tucked away like a child into a safe bed. Wait for me and do not give your love to anyone else, wherever you are. Wait for me.

"The God Pocket" by Bruce Wilkinson

I loved "The Cross and the Switchblade" by Bruce Wilkinson, so I was excited to find that "The God Pocket" coauthored by the same man was available in the program. This little book is simplistic, but it hits on a point that we so often overlook: giving.

That single word has the impact of a sledgehammer bashing most Christians into the soil of confusion. Pastors grip their lecterns and urge their flock to donate or suffer the consequences of greed and stinginess; homeless people hold out their hands, only to be ignored or brushed aside, looked upon as a result of tax hikes and outdated housing; single mothers struggle in diners to garner tips to clothe their children. Pride keeps us apart; it's the confessional screen that blurs our vision, bamboozles us into thinking that giving equals suffering financially. "The God Pocket" addresses this endemic sense of fiscal seclusion. We have money and, in this economy, we intend to keep it! However, what would happen if we set aside some of that money, prayed that God would give us the opportunity to use it, and then kept our eyes open to the people who might need that money...what might happen?

"The God Pocket" encourages believers to keep a portion of their cash in a special place and then to pray and trust that God will invite us to give it away to those in need. This book recounts many anecdotes about the faithful giving away their God fund and blessing those in need. Wilkinson bravely approaches the touchy subject of giving and shows us how God will replenish us, how He will bless our willingness to follow His lead and empty it all for the sake of helping others and bumping them into God's arms by attributing that sense of "give to this one" to His urging.

I enjoyed this book...but I have two invocations for those interested in reading it. One, the replenishment does not always come back in the form of more cash to give away. This book verges on preaching the prosperity theory, meaning that our faithful lives will result in a comfortable ride. We should not give to get back; we should instead give because God has commanded us. We must misconstrue verses that speak to this effect, like this one: "He who sows bountifully will also reap bountifully. So let each one give as he purposes in his heart, not grudgingly or of necessity; for God loves a cheerful giver. And God is able to make all grace abound toward you, that you, always having all sufficiency in all things, may have an abundance for every good work." (2 Corinthians 8-9, emphasis mine.) God is able to make all grace abound; but sometimes He will withhold something for whatever reason, perhaps so that we may depend on Him or seek His face more earnestly. Money is an earthly thing, and blessing comes back to us in many forms, certainly not immediately after we give something away. Otherwise we would have no need to depend on God as an Abba, our Father; we would instead view Him as a cosmic vending machine!

My second concern hearkens back to "Under the Overpass", the first book I reviewed for this program. Sometimes giving money away will tempt those in need to buy something that is contributing to their fiscal or spiritual malaise. We have to trust that our five bucks isn't going towards drugs or sex trafficking, or something else along those dark lines; so while the concept of setting money away for the specific purpose of giving it to those in need is an act of faith, this action endorses a larger cause. I am taking "The God Pocket" to be a catalyst for a broader concept, illustrating a simple example that can be lengthened to mean us, believers, bringing ourselves to a place where we are willing to give it all away for God's sake. By following His leading, we can bless others with more than money; use "The God Pocket" as a starting place.

I received this book for free from Waterbrook-Multnomah. If you would like this book, get it on Amazon or WB.

suicide awareness day on campus...

Today, in the crush of people I wade through every Wednesday to get from Duncan to Java in ten minutes, I paused and had 'LOVE' written on my arms. The Human Rights Club at Western a table set up for this call for those concerned about suicide prevention to pause and display their support of love, rather than prejudice or denigration. This movement, called To Write Love On Her Arms, is a movement to create awareness about suicide prevention.
Too often, I'll catch myself judging someone on campus who seem locked up, to themselves, unwilling to creep from their suppositions about the unfairness of life and the nonexistence of anything beyond their own demons, scared to taste what life has to offer. My own life isn't always easy, but at least I have the eternal hope found in the knowledge of my salvation. I have nothing to fear, a good home, money to fund my education, a family who loves me and who is more than worthy of my love in return, and a sound mind waiting to be filled with new thoughts day by day. But I know what it's like to walk through that valley; I don't say this lightly. I really do understand. Even when depression and thoughts of harm contradict every rational facet of your life, they are still somehow justified. That nagging voice in the back of your minds, trying to allure you into its destructive vein, is powerful...but it's just a voice. Nothing more. Don't let the things of this world drag you so far into depression or suicidal thoughts that you rupture your chances of enjoying life, of making a difference in a world that sorely needs and is waiting for your input! Don't give up if your life is experiencing a painful place right now; don't let your mouth be duct-taped shut. Stand up for yourself, say 'I'm not going to live like this anymore.' Only you know the change that needs to take place in your heart. Actively seek out help or support programs and organizations fighting for lives. Don't let silence become your reality; fight back and start living.
I'll leave you with this final thought. For God has not given us the spirit of fear; but of power, and of love, and of a sound mind. (1 Timothy 1:7)