L.L. Bean

The front zipper moves across with blind determination.

Papers and ink, post-it’s of reminders of I’ve already forgotten about.

The straps hold my back up right and force me to carry the weight of what I have packed .

I sometimes wonder if people ever think about their back packs. If people ever stop to think about all the notes, thoughts, emotions, and stories that  have made made their home inside.

It’s an ever changing time capsule. Evidence of each of your bad days, your good days, your rainy days, and the days that seems to slip through your mind without a pause.

My backpack has been with me for six years.

It has been filled with my ninth grade english books and notes from the back row of tenth grade health.

It has held clothes when I come home from college and planners full of work and lyrics.

It has been heavy, and it has been running on empty.

There are oil stains from high-school bleachers and tags from airports that carried me far away.

It has held every “A” and allowed me to bury papers full of red ink at the bottom.

It remembers a time before it carried my car keys…

It absorbs and studies the details of every day.

…The things we can and cannot keep…

It’s just a ride.

When your world is spinning so fast for so long, you start to not notice the movement. And you’re convinced you’re standing still.

The pen is loaded with ink, you’re never in short supply yet the hand holding it has run dry. It’s writing a poem that has been memorized, over analyzed, and seems to paralyze the heart. But on a moving carousal, you tend to beg for a pause from the motion.

As long as you look down, you focus on the words, the letters, watching the black liquid bleed into the page, you do not have to feel the spinning. Your peripheral is a blurry mess, filled with reality and nausea.

Write the words again. Flip the page. Repeat.

Are you exhausted yet? How many times can you sit through a re-run?

Even these words are over done, lost their meaning.

 

So I’m going to stop, I’m getting off this ride.

Poser.

I think inspiration isn’t always meant for the masses.

There are times when I feel the need for action, for movement, to be propelled from my seat and sprint down the street and not stop until things changes. Perhaps though, it is those moments when I am called to be still. To buckle into my seat and wait for direction instead of running haphazardly through alleys and avenues. For what good does running fast due if I am only going to end up worn out in a part of town I do not recognize?

The flame is ignited but it needs tending, it needs to have patience, for any flame that burns too fast- will burn out.

Someone once confessed to me that they hope they never get tired of faces, that they never once feel bored by the beauty of wrinkles, the twinkle of eyes, or the power of one’s lips.

I hope I never get tired of other’s passions. I pray that I constantly find inspiration from others inspiration, that I will never fail to find energy from those who devote their thoughts to what they believe is right.

Movement inspires movement. Dominoes are experts in falling easily and starting a chain reaction. But how much more attention does a domino receive when it stands alone? When it avoids the massive nose-dive and chooses instead to stand proudly? Everyone watching is no longer concerned with the thousands of others that fell, but are amazed that one survived, that one stopped the chain.

One, draws more attention than thousands.

One, makes people pause, causes action through stopping.

An honorable oxymoron.

Where should we be stopping the chain? Where could you be standing?

Sit still. Don’t listen to the roar of the crowd.

Wait for the light whisper of the Holy One to push you in the right direction- and then run there, as hard as you can until you’re no longer at the mercy of a bump or push.

White Noise.

I wonder how long it is before martyrs realize their title?

I’d like to hope that they knew it all along. A special secret written on their hearts that prepares them to live a life worthy of martyrdom.

And in some ways, I hope that we are all martyrs, that we all die while we were fighting for a cause, battling hard for a passion that Our Father has ignited in our deepest souls. Some of these wars will be fought in the ways of history books, some of them will be quiet revolutions that spread through the streets.

Most of the time the volume doesn’t kick in until later, a delay of unstoppable proportions.

I hear the music, louder louder.

Individually, we are responsible for throwing the rock, causing the ripples, making a scene, and standing up for what we truly believe in, something we would truly die for.

And hopefully, if enough of us begin up pick up our rocks and throw, we may have enough force to splash all the water from the lake onto our feet, and finally turn this whole world upside down.

Inspiration is what you take, but I’m not trying to hand anything out, I can’t.

Stand up even though everyone else may satisfied in their chairs.

The view is much more clear from above their heads.

“How can we expect righteousness to prevail when there is hardly anyone willing to give himself up individually to a righteous cause. Such a fine, sunny day, and I have to go, but what does my death matter, if through us thousands of people are awakened and stirred to action?” -Sophie Scholl

This isn’t for you.

My toes had been curling and un-curling around the edge of the diving board for years. Standing through snow and rain and sun.

The coarseness of the board scarring my feet more by the day, but jumping off, or simply leaning forward, seemed worse than the scratches on my soles.

Opening the same wounds with every failed attempt.

The fall was slow motion. Hitting the water  head first, was painful.

My body had grown numb from standing, and the cool wetness stung every inch.

I couldn’t breathe.

I fell, and my body slowly, slowly, became used to the water, to the freeness of motion in the deep end.

After what felt like a century, the tips of my toes grazed the rhythmic grate of the drain. In order for my entire foot to be totally planted on I needed to push myself further under. My arms waving wildly in order to defy gravity- not to go up but to go down.

Once I was there, I opened my eyes and looked up at the surface. They were burning, but I couldn’t keep them shut, because this was the very first time they had ever truly been open. You think cliches are irrelevant until you live them.

With everything I had left I pushed down as hard as I could on my left foot, still weak from lack of use, but I had no choice, my right foot was, for once, only hovering.

Gravity gave a sigh, anxious to push me up to the surface, and I rose, fast.

Before I knew it, I had broken the surface, crashing through into the cold air. My lungs gasping for the lack of deprivation.

Then. Stillness.

Quiet.

Just the complete absence of sound.

Then, the exhale.

I think I flew up the ladder, and picked up my towel off the concrete.

Leaving fleeting footprints from the deep end to the exit.

They’ll be gone in an hour, and never seen by anyone else.
As the summer night air asks me to curl up under the blanket of stars, all I can think is,

This isn’t normal, but what’s normal anyway?

Thoughts from Chestnut Lodge

Turns out life isn’t like the movies.

 

In the movies, there are always heroes, there are always obstacles, but in the last few seconds of the game, the enemy is defeated.

 

But life is not like the movies. 

 

The cabin is cold and damp laced with a twinge of regret & confusion. I feel like I can’t get warm. I’m wrapped in blankets and my hood i pulled far over my head, but I still feel like I’m exposed in winter air. The rain falls hard, and it feels like a movie, but there will be no closure. There will be no rolling credits, the audience is trapped within the screen without an escape. 

It’s not that the characters have lost hope, they just see a long tunnel, and the light is faint. Where are the miracles? Where are the expectations?

This battle seems insurmountable. Across the tree-line their army is growing, and we are losing soldiers. The odds are laughing in our face.

—–

This whole time by back has been against the window. I assumed the rain was still thrashing, although I couldn’t hear it over the music from my headphones. I took a breath and turned around to see sun streaming through the glass. 

 

It’s not that happy endings don’t happen, they just come in packages we don’t recognize and at a time we were not expecting. 

 

Here comes the sun, do do do do…

July 15th

Well, we’re halfway through week II, and it has been a crazy ride for everyone. 

The chaos of being a part of a brand new camp is overwhelming, but beautiful. Everything is new and even the expected seems to come out of the blue. The smiles tend to hold even when the roller coaster seems to have dislodged from the tracks, because we can see that we’re apart of something bigger. The challenges sometimes seem constant, but God has been faithful and if we can’t fix it, we have found a way to work around it. 

 

And all those challenges seems meaningless when you see children become…children. Kids who don’t have to worry about anything except who gets to be next down the water-slide, or running out of paint, far away from problems at home, school, or in their neighborhoods. 

I am reaffirmed that laughter is one of the most beautiful things that has ever been created. 

I feel as though my words are inadequate, there are far too many things going on in my mind and at this camp to try and articulate.

So instead here are some snapshots of my summer home.

July 3rd, 2009

So, I figured maybe I should start writing down some of the thoughts running through my mind while I’m here, considering it’s only been two weeks and by far the most unique and insane summer ever.

Each day feels like fifty. Each is full of so much laughter & excitement, countless hours of planning, and each day contains it’s own set of challenges. Every night I lay my head down on my pillow and I feel like I’ve just been thrown out of a tornado. The snapshots of the day seem so different and unique, encouraging and confusing. There are moments when I feel like, I am in the middle of this perfect euphoria, this small piece of heaven where there is reconciliation and hope. Other times I feel as though I can never understand, no matter how hard I try. And kids haven’t even arrived yet.

God is at work, and He is making it so evident, even if that evidence is found in painful growth. Our staff is made up of men and women from every different walk of life, bringing their own personalities, gifts, and baggage to the table, and we somehow have to figure out how to make everything fit together. 

His creation is so alive out here and begging for exploration. I cannot begin to explain all that I have been learning. All the time God is showing me that I can let go. He loved me before He even created the world, and He is the ultimate promise keeper, never changing, always using me.

This camp is a testament to so many things. Years ago this was only a dream, and on Monday, the first group of kids will arrive. They will be the first to run through the woods, stay up late in the cabins, sit around a camp fire, lay on the beds, do cabin chants before meals, they will be the first kids to step into a week at Laurel Mountain Christian Camp. 

 

Thrilling.

 

Here’s a few pictures of my life here so far, despite the unknown and the challenges- I love this place and these people.

Tuesday

I never felt so sure that I was going to see headlights come over the desserted road straight into the front of my car.

 

I could feel the whip-lash, hear the crunch, and I imagined the scraping back of my skin as I stepped out of the broken glass, drops of hot blood running down the side of my shaking calves.

My head already hurt, but I my foot stayed frozen on the gas pedal.

 

I can’t explain it. The wind rushing in from the windows on all sides, seemed to tear away my fear.

 

I was wrapped up in the darkness and coolness of the night. The summer  breeze was intoxicating.

 

The music was so loud the steering wheel was quivering under my hands, but the melody sounded muffled, like a radio playing in the next house over.

 

Above it, I heard a whisper to let go. 

 

The countryside rolled by me, struggling to play catch up.

 

And then I laughed so loud my own volume startled my single-minded thoughts.

 

Suddenly, the music was too much. Way too much. I turned the volume down lower, and lower, and lower, until I realized I would only be satisfied in the silence. With a click, it was gone.

 

I slowly removed my heavy foot and set it down on the floor as the speedometer ungratefully began to fade back.

 

My car was freezing, the summer breeze had become a night-time chill. With a dull purr the glass slid up into it’s set place.

 

And suddenly, there was quiet, only broken by the rythem of my turn signal. 

 

I felt surprised when my car stopped gracefully in front of the house, all in one piece. I sat there, for just a moment, until a number of headlights interrupted my still chaos. My hands were still on the wheel, white from the pressure I had been placing on them. They had done their part, they had guided me home somehow.

 

I stepped out of the car, and ran over to the smiling crowd. 

 

And then without looking back, I moved forward, confident on my own two feet.

 

Oh, what a night.

May 30th 2009

Breathing is esstinal to who we are.

Each breath follows us throughout our lives, each day, each moment.

Renewing and giving back, in and out.

And even though breathing sustains us, there are moments when it stops, pauses, hesitates just a moment too long.

And those are the most most beautiful moments in our lives.

The moments that even our heart and lungs take a second to embrace, instead of demanding their air.

I believe that breathing is an art. It is a refined skill to be able to follow each breath’s journey from beginning to end.

All 22,000 a day.

Each one has a life span of about three seconds. It has three seconds to make a difference in your life, to somehow get you one step closer to where you need to be, and then it’s gone.

I think breathing, in fact, is most important when it is taken away.

Something had to be so beautiful, so awe-inspiring, so captivating, that it made even our vital organs forget about beats and pulses.

There’s a reason for those instances, those flashes where the most powerful element of your being is trapped and enslaved.

It’s a short intermission, when we are able to stop hearing our own breathing, even for just a moment.

It’s as though we get a glimpse into the true beauty of the world around us, instead of just what is in us.

And then with a small gasp you’re back to where you were, 3-second breaths, 22,000 a day.

Each breath is crucial, each one holds power, each is an opportunity.

And when one is grasped right from our throats, it is never forgotten.

So may you never forget the moment you couldn’t breathe, think about it with each exhale.

Thank you for loving each other so genuinely that there is no other option but to be awe-struck by the light you are shinning on the world.

All my love.