He is jealous for me
Loves like a hurricane
I am a tree
Bending beneath the weight of his wind and mercy
When all of a sudden I am unaware of these afflictions eclipsed by Glory
And I realize just how beautiful you are and how great your affections are for me

Oh how he loves us, so
Oh How he loves us, how he loves us so

And oh, how he loves us so,
We are his portion and he is our prize
Drawn to redemption by the grace in his eyes
If grace is an ocean we’re all sinking
So, heaven meets earth like a sloppy wet kiss
And my heart turns violently inside of my chest
I don’t have time to maintain these regrets when I think about the way

He loves us.

The following collection of sentences doesn't really qualify as a paragraph and probably won't make sense to you. That's ok.

I wish I could find a job that I loved. Not just one I liked. It's not that I don't like kids; I really do like pediatric OT. I like that this potential job has flexible hours so that I can do what I really love. But I still wish... you know?

The end.

Passion.

There has to come a point where our human hearts can't hold our passion for our God. Our bodies aren't enough. I long for that day.

My occupational theory, in case you were wondering.

I'm working on my theory of occupation. Here's the gist: People tend to define themselves by what we do, and when we can no longer do those things, we lose who we are and have to redefine ourselves (that's nothing new). We are created to do this-- worship-- and we do, whether we realize it or not. But everyone is first and foremost created to define themselves as worshipers of God. That is our primary occupation. And when we don't do that, nothing else fits into place, and we end up worshiping other things-- jobs, husbands, children, golf, movie stars, OURSELVES. But the trick is that in order for us to do what we were created to do-- worship-- and integrate it into our identity, we have to first understand who we are in Christ. The two come hand in hand-- understanding who we are, then worshiping our creator and redeemer. This identity and occupation can never be stripped from us. Unfortunately, people usually don't have both. We're trying to worship without the knowledge, or we have the knowledge but no worship of Him. Therefore, we have a world of people living in the most severe occupational crises-- not knowing and worshiping their Creator.

I can't treat the symptoms and deny their cause. That's why I can't separate my career from my God.

Reflections and Mirrors.

Spring to MLK. Then right at the Dunkin Donuts and a left at the next stop sign. First parking garage on the right. Doesn't everyone have their house to work route memorized? I do mine in my sleep. Some sleep walk, but I sleep drive. At least until the stop sign. I usually wake up right about then and find my landmark that lets me know that I was heading in the right direction in my sleep-driving. Some sleep-drivers have buildings or businesses for landmarks but mine is a lady and three children with the most sparkly eyes. Even in the pre-dawn dimness, they catch my eyes, kind of like those shiny dangling bells in business doors that let the sleepy college girl in the box office know she needs to stop text messaging and start doing her job.

Every morning, those glistening eyes, then take a left. And every night, after a long day at the theatre, those glistening eyes, then take a right. Except today.

Why are those sparkly eyes right next to my parking space in the garage? What do I do? How do we get home? Oh. The stop sign. There's a stop sign. Take a right at the...

"Stop sign, ma'am. Take a right at the stop sign. Sorry to startle you. See, the cars are so warm, and we don't try to steal anything or hurt anyone, we just stay here until the movies let out."

"Oh, well that's perfectly fine," I said, gazing straight into her eyes. I tried to look down and avoid eye contact, just like my mom had taught me, but I just couldn't. She looked so familiar. After so many Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays at that stop sign, and now we finally meet. I just feel like I'd known her forever.

"Say, I go to the opera at least once a week, but I really prefer the movies. Don't you? English or Italian, some things are just the same, and I'm pretty sure "boring" sounds the same no matter where the language puts the emphasis."

Nervously fidgeting with my keys, I laughed. I thought I was the only one who used cheesy phrases like that in public places. The laughing came to an abrupt stop.

I hope she doesn't think I'm laughing at ...

"I'm 39. You're what? 23?"

"Yes ma'am."

"I'm 23, too. See, I've always thought that age is like one of those lottery machines on TV with all those number balls mixed up. It doesn't matter which one you pull out to display, the rest are still in there, you know?"

I think she just wants to talk. Don't we all just need to talk sometimes?

"So I'm 23, too. Twenty-three. Twenty-three. When I was 23, my hair was like yours, only curlier. That sweatshirt. Did you know I went to Emory, too? I'm a writer. I was a writer. No, I am a writer." She seemed nervous for the first time. "With an especially incorruptible love for adjectives and complete disregard for sentence structure. See, in school, they told me I was a writer, and I saw what they saw each morning when I brushed my teeth and pulled back my completely unmanageable curly hair. A writer. I was young, but I saw what they saw and I knew that meant something."

"A writer?" I tried not to sound disrespectful. I just didn't know. Would you?

She seemed saddened, but she kept that gaze with her shimmering eyes. "Now you don't see what I see. No one does. And that's what hurts most."

How can she keep looking at me dead in my eyes when all I want to do is look down? Is she going to keep going?

"When I was 23, I had boots like that. I don't think those are my size, but you get the point. I hope those boots bring you better luck than they brought me. I fell in love in those boots. Quite literally. My husband caught me and he fell, too." She half-smiled with her chapped lips and laughed a little.

We laughed, together. And sat down on the hood of my red VW, together. She crossed her legs, surprisingly lady-like.

"And love meant one, two, then three mouths to feed. So I wrote. He worked. I didn't get paid. He did. He liked it that way, I think. See, words were my thing, and numbers were his. You know what they say about literacy being power? See, I already had that, and he couldn't take it away, so he kept what power he could with those numbers. One, three, then nine and 11. Bruises seemed to be the only currency he was willing to share."

I started tearing up, but just a little. How could she talk so openly?

"So I could stagger to the sink and look in the mirror, only it wouldn't be me. It wasn't me for a very, very long time. He shattered things. He shattered people. When he aimed for my babies, we left. We came back when we ran out of money. It took 3 tries, but third time's a charm, right?"

I couldn't match her half smile. I couldn't match her laugh.

"A few shelters, but a after a month, they kicked us out. I couldn't get a job because I had zero license, zero references, zero addresses, zero day care. But I still have three angels."

"Yeah." What else could I say?

"I see mirrors everyday, Whitney. They wear nice-smelling clothes and have conditioned air homes and cars, but they are mirrors. Joanie, Mallorie, and Micah and me, we see ourselves in them. At least we know our reflections when we see them, though. See, we can't hide. But now I know how it feels to be the mirror. That's why they don't look at us."

Silence.

"Hey, do you know what time the show lets out?"

Now I know how it feels to be a mirror.

(Jonathan reminded me that may be I should state that this is fiction...)

Everything.

Sometimes I wonder if Mary asked God, "Can't Jesus just be my son?"
He was so many things to so many people. A healer, savior, rabbi, friend, preacher, threat. May be sometimes she just wanted to stop everyone and everything and say "But He's my son."

But He couldn't ever just be Mary's son, or the son of a carpenter. He couldn't just be a healer, a rabbi. He was Mary's Jesus. But He couldn't ever just be her son.

I feel the strain sometimes, being so many things to so many people, only He was much better at it than I am now. He understood and practiced something that I"m learning everyday: "My role as a child of God is pivotal. It must be."

"But can't I just be __________?"

No, because we are children of God. And because we are children of God, we fulfill those other roles. I think Jesus understood that truth. Whether He learned it or just knew it, He understood it.

We long for someone to see us in all our fullness, but no one does. Not even ourselves. Only God, and there's something about Him and His complete view of us that we are curious about that also strikes fear.

May be sometimes God feels about us as Mary may have felt about her Jesus. I try to do, do, do, to be His servant, worshiper, disciple. And He says, "Whitney, can't you just be my child?"

Because God sees what Mary eventually, or perhaps always did, see. That to be God's child is to be everything He calls us to be. But without His sonship, everything is nothing. at. all.

Baby.

(Baby Washkau's head, courtesy of Jane and Jesse. He/She's due in April, and they're quite excited, and rightfully so.)

It pains me to think that if Jesus were conceived in this century, He might not have survived pregnancy. Thank God that Mary was full of the Holy Spirit. If any baby was inconvenient, wouldn't it be Jesus? Unmarried mother. Initially unaccepting earthly father. Potential stoning. Mary had her whole life ahead of her. And she really didn't do anything to "deserve" it, if you know what I mean.

"We didn't plan it."
"It's just not a good time."
"It wouldn't be fair to the baby."
"I didn't deserve this."

She would get so many dirty looks, just as she probably received when she was alive. Some of the same reasons, some different. Dirty looks for not aborting, but dirty looks if she would.

Blessed Mary, holding the "kingdom of God within her" before Jesus even uttered those words.

But poor Mary, with such a nonsensical secret that made more sense than anyone this world has ever met. A secret that couldn't stay secret for long.

"Blessed are you who are poor, for yours is the kingdom of God." Luke 6:20.