The lament of the seagulls echoes off the cliffs.

For God alone my soul in silence waits; truly, my hope is in Him. Psalm 62:6

Sunset in Santorini

Prayer is the soul’s sincere desire,

Unuttered or expressed,

The motion of a hidden fire

That trembles in the breast.

The upward glancing of an eye,

When none but God is near. 

-James Montgomery

The will of God is not a 'fate' to which we submit but a creative act in our life producing something absolutely new . . . something hitherto unforeseen by the laws and established patterns. Our cooperation (seeking first the Kingdom of God) consists not solely in conforming to laws but in opening our wills out to this creative act which must be retrieved in and by us. –Thomas Merton

Strawberry moon just before sunrise

He that planted the ear, does He not hear? He that formed the eye, does He not see? He who admonishes the nations, will not punish? He who teaches all the world, has He no knowledge? The LORD knows our human thoughts: how like a puff of wind they are. Happy are they whom You instruct, O LORD! whom You teach out of Your law. Psalm 94:9-13

Let my heart be full of Your praise and Your glory all the day long. Psalm 71:8, revised by Christy

Thank you very kindly for our supper

Then all the disciples deserted him and made their escape. There happened to be a young man among Jesus’ followers who wore nothing but a linen shirt. They seized him, but he left the shirt in their hands and took to his heels stark naked. Mark 14:50-52

I get it. The being tired part. The spirit is willing but the flesh is weak.

We are all tired. Andrea and Ali are tired of New York City winters. John is tired from working six twelve-hour shifts heaving discount tires around to pay for a trip to Italy. Cherish is tired of moving ten times in two months. Nicole is tired in the transition between suitcases, something she learned to overcome racing triathlons. Jenny and Tim are tired; the backyard project turned out to be bigger than expected. Even spring-break-Alan is tired; his neck hurts from leaning over while welding all of these cool thing-a-ma-bob key fobs.

And I could totally take off in the opposite direction, stark naked. Leaving it all behind. Especially that stack of Works Cited to grade and the supply list for the Mexicali crafts and games. I haven’t even read the self-study for the school accreditation.

So it was a good thing to wander around Psalm 139 this morning, slowly. Through he bits about If I take the wings of the morning, and dwell in the uttermost parts of the sea; Even there shall Thy hand lead me, and Thy right hand shall hold me, and the How precious also are Thy thoughts unto me, O God! how great is the sum of them! bits. Because I am way like those disciples of Jesus. The could-not-keep-their-eyes-open-and-they-did-not-know-what-to-say-for-themselves disciples. Like them, I cannot even pretend for a moment that maybe I bought into the whole Puddleglum* mind game, Even if sometimes in early still-dark hours my tired soul slides into that existential swamp and is comforted. Like them, things are not exactly what I thought I had figured out, and it is always unexpected around the corner. But I have seen and I have tasted His faithfulness. And gathered up the leftovers in huge baskets. Which should tide me over on the journey.

Search  me, O God, and know my heart; Try me and know my anxious thoughts; And see if there be any hurtful way in me, And lead me in the everlasting way. Psalm 139:23-24

* “One word, Ma'am," he said, coming back from the fire; limping, because of the pain. "One word. All you've been saying is quite right, I shouldn't wonder. I'm a chap who always liked to know the worst and then put the best face I can on it. So I won't deny any of what you said. But there's one more thing to be said, even so. Suppose we have only dreamed, or made up, all those things-trees and grass and sun and moon and stars and Aslan himself. Suppose we have. Then all I can say is that, in that case, the made-up things seem a good deal more important than the real ones. Suppose this black pit of a kingdom of yours is the only world. Well, it strikes me as a pretty poor one. And that's a funny thing, when you come to think of it. We're just babies making up a game, if you're right. But four babies playing a game can make a play-world which licks your real world hollow. That's why I'm going to stand by the play world. I'm on Aslan's side even if there isn't any Aslan to lead it. I'm going to live as like a Narnian as I can even if there isn't any Narnia. So, thanking you kindly for our supper, if these two gentlemen and the young lady are ready, we're leaving your court at once and setting out in the dark to spend our lives looking for Overland. Not that our lives will be very long, I should think; but that's a small loss if the world's as dull a place as you say.” 

Folding up the tissue paper wrapping and putting it away

LORD, Thou hast searched me, and known me.

Thou knowest my downsitting and mine uprising, Thou understandest my thought afar off.

Thou compassest my path and my lying down, and art acquainted with all my ways.

For there is not a word in my tongue, but, lo, O LORD, Thou knowest it altogether.

Thou hast beset me behind and before, and laid Thine hand upon me.

Such knowledge is too wonderful for me; it is high, I cannot attain unto it.

Whither shall I go from Thy spirit? or whither shall I flee from Thy presence?

If I ascend up into heaven, Thou art there: if I make my bed in hell, behold, Thou art there.

If I take the wings of the morning, and dwell in the uttermost parts of the sea;

Even there shall Thy hand lead me, and Thy right hand shall hold me. Psalm 139:1-10

The wings of morning are gliding across the Dallas skyline.  Big black ravens shake the upright round trees with their chatter.  And He is here.

And as I consider the past three years of my life in the world of ACSI, who would have thunk it? What a gift Kathie handed me when she answered my angst of an overwhelming life with, Just quit it.  

Unpacking this gift, these 1000 named gifts, has brought new rhythms to my life with mom and dad, new friendships spread throughout the western hemisphere and even across the narrow passageway in the unassuming office on North Wilmot, just a talking-to-myself mutter away. And so many feet up on the magazine table in front of the fire moments in the glowing Tim and Jenny home.  

I think the biggest gift has been this too-wonderful-for-me glimpses of His great love and His great work in the hearts and lives of His beloved children–one can only call it universalism– a word full of imperfections and baggage and inaccurate connotations– because His love reaches so far beyond the uttermost parts, and yet, so intimately with the very fearfully and wonderfully made innermost parts of each one of us. Every one of us.

And at this very moment, early morning stirrings are beginning at the 130 million dollar campus at the First Southern Church in downtown Dallas while most likely Dana Mahan is reading goodnight stories to his freshly bathed boys after a dusty afternoon of soccer under the South African sky.  17,500 teachers in the church schools of the Democratic Republic of Congo prepare their thoughts for tomorrow morning, while my sensible and insightful roommate Julie for the past three days is boarding a plane for Pennsylvania where her husband and five children will pick her up and take her to out for Mother’s Day pitas.  Ramoncita is roasting coffee beans with handfuls of sugar on a dented sheet of metal behind the green cement house along Cañada del Horno, San José de Ocoa and Heather is hoping that sweet Everette will settle down for just two more hours after yet-another little snack.

So very many moments: wandering the cobbled streets of Antigua, Guatemala with Manual and Marina and Luis, discussing a chance conversation while picking up a few things at the grocery store, pacing nervously in the back of a regional Spelling Bee, an unrequested German boy who met God in the back bedroom, the Holocaust Museum with an unnamed Spaniard, flip flip flip through morning meditations until I arrive at a candle-lit moment at the dining room table, October 25, 2010 when I committed to twenty-eight days of early morning writing...I ran out the door after forty-five minutes and was late to swimming.  The Italian was trying to figure out why I was I so long to hear Your voice at four-thirty this morning, and when I was explaining to him my “schedule” (disciplines sound so much more spiritual), he said, half joking, “Why don’t you just say, ‘Your will be done,’ and go back to bed?”   

And all of these moments in His book were written, which in continuance were fashioned, when as yet there was none of them. 

And now, dear LORD, I lift up the rest of the journey to You, wherever it may wend.  Reminded and comforted that You are with me, and in fact I cannot escape Your attention and knowing.  

Lead me in the way everlasting.