(crowded cries)

My emotions betray me when I read conversion stories like Anne Lamott's in Traveling Mercies. I'm not jealous, I'm...wistful, I think. She didn't find God; he found her. In the middle of her drug and alcohol induced fog, her feminist intellectualism, her strident disdain of all things Christianly, he used everything from a Bat Mitzvah to Kierkegaard to appearances in her room, and he found her.

I've never been chased like that. I know in my head that he loves me with an everlasting love, that he would pursue me if I ever tried to run. Maybe that's why I feel like this. Maybe it's simply because I never ran. I've always been one of the ninety-nine, the coin in the purse, the brother at home. Of course he wouldn't chase me--I'm right here with him.

But another part of me feels like he's never chased me because I'm in this great, big crowd. These people hem me in, lest I dream of running, and he can't chase me because they won't let him get close to me. I know he's there, at the edge of the crowd, but I'm pressed in so tightly I can't quite get to him. What I know and what I trust will have to be enough for now. I know he's there and I trust he hears me over this crowd. A crowd which seems to have everything solved. They've agreed not to ask any questions, and instead spend all their words on praises, constantly gushing that he's just so good.

But I can't do it.

I know he must be good, but for reasons I can't identify, I can't raise my voice with theirs. I hope he sees my frantic eyes. I hope I don't just blend in and am thus overlooked by him. I hope he hears my one discordant voice. It's soft, but imploringly hopeful: Please, I really want to know you.

laser beams and fireworks

I go through these blasted phases where I lament a lack of love, where I feel like I'm not particularly a God-lover because I'm not feeling particularly like a people-lover. The moments typically come when I'm spending lots of time with friends whose very essence is an oozing love for others. Maybe you know the type--they say hey to everyone they pass, if they can remember someone's name then they consider that person a good friend, and they'd willingly miss a meal or go without sleep for years (or at least a night) before telling someone "I'm sorry; I can't."

I'm not like that.

"No" is not the hardest word for me to say, and I rarely forget to care for myself. What with all the harsh scriptures about "dying to self and "laying down one's life for a friend," you can see how I put it all together and feel like a schmuck. How do my amazing, self-sacrificing friends do it, I wonder?

I've watched them carefully, and here's my conclusion: They are fireworks. They explode big. They bless many. They are vibrant lights. Their circles of influence are huge.

I, on the other hand, get overwhelmed by the masses. I may appear to love only a few, but I really love them deeply. The circle is small, but how could it be much bigger when I want to truly know them and allow them to truly know me? It's more of a laser beam. . .and if you're in the line, the love is intense, and it's not going to end any time soon.

Looking at it from this perspective has helped me realize I'm not as unloving as I thought. I no longer scold myself, because I've even seen some of my fireworks friends learn how to be a bit more focused. And I've learned from them, too, and am beginning to find ways to reach out a bit further.

sweet union

Some of the more precious memories in my life are of moments when I've been reunited with someone from whom I've been separated. A rib-crushing hug-turned-gleeful-circle-dance with a dear sister in the Shanghai airport. Walking into the bride's dressing room to see my best friend from highschool just before her wedding. Surprising my parents with an impromptu visit months before my first scheduled trip home my first year of college.

Being united for the first time is precious, as well. I recall the moment I gave up on living for myself, on running my own life, on having my own way--the moment I was united with Christ.

I eagerly anticipate, even long for, other unions and reunions: the next time I'll feel so safe in my father's embrace, the walk down a petal-strewn aisle to join the man I'll never leave, the first bundle of wonder and potential I'll someday cradle and coo to, the moment I'll give up my last breath and stand in the surest reality I've ever known.