On a particular day a few years back, I had a problem. I have zero idea now what it was, and the details don鈥檛 matter anyway because it鈥檚 always something for us discontent humans, or for me anyway.

I felt sure that if I could just call a friend, then everything would be okay. She or he would say the right thing, comfort me, and my anxiety would dissipate in the magic of our connection. Deep down I realized that any one friend鈥檚 counsel would leave me needing more and that I鈥檇 end up banging on every door and dialing the phone number of everybody I knew.

In the midst of my apprehension I heard a little voice in my head suggesting that I didn鈥檛 need to call a friend; instead I should just pray. And I immediately got on my knees.

No, that鈥檚 a lie.

I decided instead that the ideal solution would be to go to the drugstore and buy and eat a lot of chocolate.

In two seconds I knew that that too was an inadequate plan.

And then Psalm 16 popped out of my head, right where I鈥檇 put it. Being a rule-following, legalistic sort of girl during those fireproof years, I鈥檇 been memorizing scripture somewhat regularly, a habit that served me well and helped me learn that it actually does have power.

I started sort of whining and talking all at once, using this psalm as counterpoint to my ramblings. I鈥檇 go back and forth in my head between what I was really feeling and what the psalm said was reality. I confess that I had this conversation in a moving vehicle, that there were not a few tears involved, and that I don鈥檛 know where I drove in the 20 minutes that passed.

I鈥檒l let you in on my conversation, the best I remember it:

God, help. Help, help, help, help. Now.

Okay, your word says, 鈥�Keep me safe, O God, for in you I take refuge.鈥�

I鈥檓 not safe; how can you say that, God? I鈥檓 paralyzed and shaky.

鈥�I said to the Lord, 鈥榊ou are my LORD; apart from you I have no good thing.鈥�鈥�

I don鈥檛 feel that way; I wonder if you鈥檙e even good. If I鈥檓 honest, I want everything else more than I want you today. You鈥檙e actually barely on my list.

鈥�As for the saints who are in the land; they are the glorious ones in whom is all my delight.鈥�

Yes, God, I do like your people .听.听. where are they all right now by the way? Why do I always feel so alone?

鈥�The sorrows of those will increase who run after other gods.鈥�

Yep, I鈥檓 running after friends and food like usual.

鈥�I will not take up their names on my lips nor pour out their libations of blood.鈥�

I don鈥檛 want to obsess over something besides you; help me stop.

鈥�Lord you have assigned my portion and my cup; you have made my lot secure.鈥�

I have to admit that in spite of my current problem, my life is pretty sweet. I鈥檓 not starving in a refugee camp; I live in freedom and safety. And beyond that, I have a good life .听.听. even if I can鈥檛 always feel it. I鈥檒l admit that. Grudgingly.

鈥�The boundary lines have fallen for me in pleasant places.鈥�

Okay, I do acknowledge that. To not do that would be really bratty because I do have everything I need鈥攁nd more. Even though I鈥檓 upset, this is all objectively true.

鈥�Surely I have a delightful inheritance.鈥�

I鈥檓 trying to remember, God, that the life I have with you鈥攐n my worst days鈥攖rumps everything else in my life including these current problems. I know that you delight in me, that you look at me and love me, and you don鈥檛 hold it against me that I鈥檓 having a rough time claiming all your promises and experiencing joy.

Honestly the thrill of life with you isn鈥檛 floating my boat right now, but I will acknowledge that sometimes it does.

鈥�I will praise the Lord who counsels me.鈥�

Who am I that you would talk to me personally? Is it really okay to rant and argue with you? You鈥檙e not going to strike me dead, are you?

鈥�Even at night my heart instructs me.鈥�

I realize I鈥檓 calming down a little, like I do after my husband comforts me when I wake him up to say I鈥檝e had a nightmare.

鈥�I have set the Lord always before me.鈥�

Well no, I haven鈥檛. Sorry I forget so often.

鈥�Because he is at my right hand, I will not be shaken.鈥�

Without you I鈥檓 kind of antsy and broken; with you I do feel steadier.

鈥�Therefore my heart is glad and my tongue rejoices. My body also will rest secure.鈥�

God, I know my emotions will come around; my courage will come back. I鈥檒l calm down. My equilibrium isn鈥檛 gone forever. And I鈥檒l see my problem in perspective.

鈥�You will not abandon me to the grave; nor will you let your Holy One see decay.鈥�

I believe Jesus鈥� resurrection happened and that it applies to me. Pick me up from my own ash heap.

鈥�Lord, you have made known to me the path of life.鈥�

I want to be on that trajectory where dead things come back to life; I鈥檓 desperate for it in fact.

鈥�You fill me with joy in your presence, with eternal pleasures at your right hand.鈥�

I鈥檓 trying to remember to stick close. Help me. Thanks. Amen!

And with that 鈥淎men!鈥� I rolled into the driveway, wrung out though peaceful and with my issue settled. I鈥檇 moved鈥攁s the psalmist describes鈥攆rom being a 鈥渂rute beast鈥� to being a 鈥渨eaned child,鈥� something in me moving from chaotic to settled, from crazed to content.

Dan Allender, one of my favorite authors, wrote in that 鈥減rayer is wrestling with God until we surrender to his goodness.鈥�

I was waving my white flag.

The post What Wrestling with a Psalm Taught Me about Prayer appeared first on 天美视频 of Theology & Psychology.

Love showed up at the International Arrivals Terminal at Dulles Airport. I was waiting for a friend to arrive when I witnessed a reunion of two women, perhaps sisters, cousins or friends. They were both around 30. When one of them came through the door from Customs they came together in an embrace that seemed somehow life defining. The joy in their reunion telegraphed, 鈥淵ou are part of me, and I鈥檝e been incomplete while we were apart.鈥� The bond looked capable of setting them both aflame. It was the purest manifestation of friendship I鈥檇 ever witnessed, without a whiff of the eroticism that we often assume is necessary for the deepest kinship.

The two of them beheld only each other as friends and relatives swirled around them, leaving them largely alone. They would throw their arms around each other, then pull back a bit and just look at one another with delight and wonder that they truly were here, together, finally. They took turns kissing each other on the cheek or holding the other鈥檚 face between eager hands. And then they鈥檇 hug again.

I couldn鈥檛 look away from the intimacy; maybe I should have, but I couldn鈥檛.

I wanted what they had so badly. I prayed for it while stifling cries that could have reached heaven itself, wherever that is, if I鈥檇 let them out. I felt crushing disappointment that I鈥檇 never looked at anyone nor been looked at that way and also a warm, bubbly delight at knowing that something like that was happening on planet Earth for somebody.

Tears were rolling down my face.

* 听* 听*

For a few years, like a moth drawn to flame, I frequently watched one of the last scenes in the movie My Best Friend鈥檚 Wedding. I had learned over the years to pay attention to repetition and tears as clues to what God was trying to show me. This movie scene fit.

In the movie Julia Roberts plays a woman named Jules who has come to town to try to stop her best friend Michael from marrying the wrong girl, since she鈥檚 now realized that she鈥攁lways platonically connected鈥攊s the right one for him. The relationship between Jules and Michael is sweet, and yet the audience is willing for him to go off with his fianc茅e Kimmy鈥攎ostly because the plot is more nuanced than I鈥檓 describing. And that鈥檚 what he ultimately does.

At the end of the movie the bridal couple goes off in their limousine with fireworks exploding, and then the camera fades back to lovely Jules sitting at a table alone as the reception winds down. Her cellphone, the size of a loaf of bread, rings. Jules answers and it鈥檚 George, one of her other dear friends. George has secretly come to town to be there for her when her heart gets stomped, as he knew it would when Michael inevitably went off with Kimmy. Jules is relieved when he calls her to provide a lifeline out of her loneliness and doesn鈥檛 know that George is actually across the room.

George starts mentioning things he would only know if he could actually see her. He says something about her lavender dress鈥攕he hadn鈥檛 told him the color鈥攁nd how her hair is swept up. He notes that she鈥檚 sitting alone and not dancing, to which she replies cynically that dancing may happen in another 30 years or so. He muses that she hasn鈥檛 touched the wedding cake in front of her. He teases that she鈥檚 probably drumming her fingers on the white linen tablecloth the way she always does鈥攚hich she is in fact doing. He says that she鈥檚 probably looking at her nails and thinking she should have had a manicure; she is.

And the more George says, the more Jules feels seen and known and hopeful.

She jumps up and starts looking around. The crowd parts, and George swoops in for the rescue of his lonely friend. As the wedding band cranks up 鈥淚 Say a Little Prayer,鈥� George asks Jules, 鈥淗as God heard your little prayer? Will Cinderella dance again?鈥�

He grabs her hand and leads her to the dance floor, acknowledging that he is in fact gay and therefore 鈥淢aybe there won鈥檛 be marriage .听.听. maybe there won鈥檛 be sex .听.听. but, by God, there鈥檒l be dancing.鈥�

I practically dissolved into a puddle on the floor every time I watched that scene as I did again writing about it because I myself so wanted鈥攁nd want鈥攖o be seen and known and rescued that way.

I melt in the arms of a God who invites me to dance when I feel invisible, inhibited, passed over or alone.

Who finds me delightful just as I am鈥攅rratic and imperfect.

And sees the glory of who I could become.

The post More Than Valentine鈥檚 Day and Romance appeared first on 天美视频 of Theology & Psychology.

鈥淭he glory of God is a human being fully alive,鈥� the second-century bishop Irenaeus once said.

I used to think God was looking for respectable people鈥攖hose who didn鈥檛 mix with the wrong crowd, folks whose desires were never too strong, who recognized Jesus as good but weren鈥檛 going to get all radical about him. The men simply needed to stay sober, make a lot of money, and drive their wives and kids to church in large vehicles with those window stickers depicting the perfect family. The women would put hearts and bows on everything, keep their opinions to themselves, and certainly never travel alone. The children would stay on the college prep path and never deviate.

And even though I wanted parts of that life, I worried that if I became an all-in, committed Jesus girl I鈥檇 stop being me. I鈥檇 develop a taste for cheesy art鈥攇arden gates and dreamy paths鈥攁nd have to give up my taste for Howard Finster and Matisse. I鈥檇 lose my appetite for margaritas and start craving watered-down, churchy-pink punch. I鈥檇 have to leave urban streets for a quiet convent even though I鈥檓 kind of scared of nuns.

Instead I found out that the longer we hang out with God and the more we gulp in his love, the more we become ourselves, our own versions of God鈥檚 image. It still shocks me that he allows us to represent him. It doesn鈥檛 seem wise.

Although I appear confident, I鈥檓 often a fragile mess. I love driving in fast-moving traffic and I hear God best on the road. I rescue random handicrafts from thrift stores because I feel sad for whoever made them. I鈥檓 probably the only debutante who ever sent her photos to Leavenworth Prison, to a pen pal who shellacked them onto plaques, burnished the edges, and sent them back. And I have a great imagination, which means that whenever anyone I love is late, I immediately assume they鈥檝e been chopped into pieces. God can work with that package.

As I鈥檝e grown into my set-free self, I鈥檝e started to look more and more like the kid I was on my better days. I resemble the girl who took just about any dare, getting stuck in a chimney once, and had imaginary playmates鈥擬rs. Sivvers, Grock, The Berber, Mother Evilly and another crew, always a unit, named Peter-Wendy-Allen-and-the-baby鈥攁ll of whose exploits I loved to share.

If God has wooed me with a quirky approach, it may be because 鈥渜uirky鈥� was my native tongue.

My paternal grandfather was a record-breaking aviator, an oil wildcatter, a novelist, and a rogue. He married a former Mardi Gras queen who largely supported him and who ended each and every day by going to bed with a shot of bourbon, a glass of warm beer and a cup of black coffee.

Their son, my father . . . had his last drink in 1957, plays the ukulele, and never stopped noticing struggling people even as he soared to the upper echelons of the Thoroughbred horseracing world, winning the Preakness and the Belmont, two legs of the famed Triple Crown.

“As I’ve grown into my set-free self, I’ve started to look more and more like the kid I was.”

When I was 11 and was being bullied by a crowd of older girls at the barn where I kept my pony, I confided in my father, knowing that he had the wisdom to know how I should react. He told me, 鈥淣ext time they bother you, just wheel around and say to them, 鈥楪o to hell, bitches!鈥欌�� I did exactly that; the teasing stopped.

My mother came from a well-respected line of Baptist preachers and lived her early years in a grand antebellum Georgia home that General Sherman missed. She had a schizophrenic uncle whom her mother insisted was normal. She has taught Sunday school and Bible studies most of her life, smoked cigars for a while, and recently tap-danced to 鈥淚t鈥檚 Raining Men鈥� for her great-grandchildren.

One of my earliest memories involves my maternal grandmother taking me to see the movie Hell鈥檚 Angels on Wheels. I felt exhilarated in the cozy dark seated with my sister, young cousins, and our very proper matriarch with grey curls, church-worthy dress, and high heels in the midst of a crew of black-leather-chapped, muscle-bound motorcycle enthusiasts, watching a movie that was, I now realize, entirely inappropriate for our merry little crew.

When I think of myself as most fully alive, I remember being a teenager enraptured by a perfect day of 68 degrees or so. I picked sprigs and stalks of the azaleas that bloomed profusely in my hometown of Atlanta, Georgia each spring and tucked them behind my ears, in my buttonholes, and in the belt loops of my jeans. I twirled and danced around in circles, dizzy with the joy of being alive . . . until a boy that I liked drove by and honked, and I darted into the side door of the house and put twirling on hold for a few decades.

In my bedroom aerie, with the roar of the air-conditioner as my soundtrack, I would spend hours reading and writing in my journal. I鈥檇 stare down at my parents and sister sun-tanning in the backyard and wonder why I was different, the white sheep in a bronzed family.

At summer camp when other teenagers were competing for sports trophies, I won Fastest Typist. It wasn鈥檛 that I was a sedentary introvert. I was simply over-awed by all the cool girls who made everything look easy and thought I鈥檇 sit out a few rounds. I was also dodging wearing a bathing suit, in which I felt shamefully pale and overweight, even at 100 pounds.

I was the sports mascot in high school, accompanying the cheerleaders and bouncing around in purple high-tops and a fake-fur, full-body suit covered in leopard spots, even though we were the Northside Tigers. My mother hadn鈥檛 been able to find tiger fur at the store, so we improvised.

Nonplussed, I danced, frolicked, and even twirled on the gravelly sidelines of our Friday night football games. The smell of hot dogs and Coke wafted through the air as the marching band played 鈥淒ancing Queen,鈥� 鈥淪hake Your Booty,鈥� and 鈥淭he Hustle鈥� (the last one seemingly over and over). Boys teased me and children pulled my tail. With giddy joy welling up behind that white fake-fur tiger tummy, I felt bold and free as long as I had on my mask.

Check back in the coming weeks听for two more听excerpts from Burning Down the Fireproof Hotel.

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