I awake

Then he said to me, “Prophesy to these bones and say to them, ‘Dry bones, hear the word of the Lord! This is what the Sovereign Lord says to these bones: I will make breath enter you, and you will come to life.  I will attach tendons to you and make flesh come upon you and cover you with skin; I will put breath in you, and you will come to life. Then you will know that I am the Lord.’” Ezekiel 37:4-6 

Tonight was one of those nights where I couldn’t stay asleep.  

There was no haunting of dreams or unclear conscience.  Rather I woke quickly, immediately aware that each day my heart beats and my breath steadies.

Do you ever get that? A momentary reminder of the fact that you’re living? 

It’s a common reality so easily overlooked; yet it harbors the power to shock and awe in the midst of a sudden awakening.

I sit cozily with the fine company of a cup of tea and a wakeful state.  The three of us collectively, excitedly realize that it’s the first of September.  Not only does it mark the beginning of early autumn, it roughly marks the passing of three years since I was truly awakened.  

While I grew up under parents of faith and an avid habit of church, I was not a Christian.  Some people have beautiful testimonies in which Jesus always had a grip on their heart from womb till present, and they were SURE.  I would sit in youth group and listen to people talk about how SURE they were and wonder if I’d ever be SURE or if there was even anything to be SURE about.  I got so worn down by the absence of certainty, that I simply became certain in the opposite direction.  So “certain” in fact, that by the time I was in high school, I’d sooner have believed in the validity of Santa Claus than I would’ve in Jesus Christ.  

But.

By the grace of Christ himself, I was finally awakened to the fact He is real. 

The summer before I came to college, I had one extremely terrible and dark moment.

The moment immediately following, I was entrusted with the gift of light.

And I was SURE.

Coming into the light for the first time was like waking up when I never knew I’d been sleeping.  Having life breathed into me by God was like witnessing the sun kiss a dark valley; like flesh covering those dry bones.  I could suddenly feel my heart beat and my breath grow steady.  

And three years later in the dead of night, I feel exceedingly more alive than asleep.

I don’t know who will read this.  And of those who do, I don’t know if you’re aware of the life that you’ve been granted through a sacrifice beyond comprehension.  But as the weather will soon cool and the leaves will shortly fall, I pray you know why your heart beats and your breath steadies.  I pray that you know the Savior I do.  I pray you can be SURE.  

I pray you are awakened.

And if you would sooner believe in the validity of Santa Claus, allow me to fill you in on the world’s best kept secret:  Santa Claus is actually just Mike and Carrie Drews.

I wait

"I thought about heaven, about how if we were shooting a movie about heaven, at the airport, we would want to shoot it there, and how in the movie, people would be arriving from earth and from other planets, and when the angels picked us up, they'd put us in their cars and drive a million miles for a thousand years, and it would be miserable until you got where you were supposed to stay..."-Donald Miller, A Million Miles in a Thousand Years

I've seen some of the world's greatest cities, landmarks, and artwork in the last two weeks.  I feel like I'm learning the world's deepest secrets with each new marvel.  

Yet wonder aside, all I can think about is Christmas.

This is surprising, because I really hate snow.  I'm working on civility with winter.  
Lately, though, I daydream in white; in snowy days, chai lattes, and mismatched mittens.  My head hits the pillow after exploring this new territory, and I am offered (nightly) the same dream: I am walking towards a light between three pines in the middle of winter.  I have yet to reach the light, but I appear happier than ever to tread through the pure and blinding flurry...honored to abide in that light as I face the storm that swallows me.
On Sunday, we worshipped at the American Church in Paris.  When we got on the Metro, there was a man with a music box and a saxophone playing the happiest live music that I have ever heard.  There wasn't one sad spirit on the entire metro.  As we exited the Metro to be in communion with the Lord, I noticed that the musical man was walking ahead of us rolling his music box to the next place where he might lift spirits and brighten days.  

 I thought of how every appointment has a waiting room; each destination has a journey.

We are all in waiting for the Lord, whether we know it or not- treading the snow with a sunny disposition, waiting for Him like we do each Christmas.  I imagine that although our true home can't be found in this life, the ride to heaven won't be "miserable until we end up where we're supposed to stay"...even if it is snowing.  I think it will be less like a bunch of miserable cars and more like a communal metro where some guy with tattoos and a saxophone plays the happiest song ever...a joyful tune in anticipation to get to church and meet the Lord; a perfect melody that precedes communion with the blinding light beyond the pines.

I explain

"Erin, are you married?" Abby asked me shortly before our trip.

"No, Abby, I'm just...doing my own thing.  I sweat on dates."

Emma chimed in: "Why? Dates seem fun. Bring extra deodorant."

"Deodorant is a positive, but it only takes you so far."

They never bothered me about it again. Then tonight happened.

I had the girls to myself.  Upon returning from a trip for ice cream, a guy opened the door to the lobby of our apartment building.  All three of us said "Merci", but he continued to speak to me in French.  Between my stumbling French and his butchered English, we understood one another.  Abby and Emma smiled at me without ceasing.  We parted ways when the girls and I reached our third story apartment.  "He's a prince, you know," Abby said once we were inside.

Sure enough, an hour later, we noticed a note addressed to "la jeune et jolie fille au pair" slip underneath our door, followed by the sound of quick feet running down the stairs.  Emma dove for the note and read his invitation to coffee.  I asked the girls their thoughts.

Emma:  "I mean, what would be cooler, a French boyfriend or a Michigan one?  Let's all go on a date to the park and wear deodorant."

Abby: "I think he seems nice.  I just want you with whoever will come to our parties we throw."  

They created a list:

Erin's True Love

super daring

has two legs and wears pants

loves Jesus

"owns a garden for Erin to paint flowers in"

buys frappuccinos 

has no cat

is loving

tall and handsome

likes salad

To their dismay, I told them I wouldn't be going on a date with a French stranger.  Of course, this was after Emma had written a Google-translated response, complete with kisses and hand sanitizer in place of perfume. 

I explained to them that if there is someone someday, he will be someone who was placed in my life to challenge me to be a better person; to be more like Jesus.  I then assured them that he will also fit their extremely specific list.  And you know, maybe that person is reading this post.  Maybe not.  Maybe it's a long time away, or maybe it's not at all.  Maybe it truly is the French stair guy with good manners and really bad cursive.  All I know is that we are born to be made more and more holy, bound by blood and love that's not our own.  And I believe that things like relationships and marriage are for that whole "holy" process; that in service to (and with) one another, you serve Him.   You do good, you live well, and you serve Him.  
It was a mere coffee invitation, and I fully realize its unattachment and simplicity.  But I wanted to tell the girls something with some substance when I explained why I won't go.  On this trip, I am finding that simple tasks and conversations for adults are great opportunities to be lessons for kids.  I didn't think it'd be appropriate to brush off what had happened, or to show them the movie "Taken".  I hope that although tonight was fun, Emma and Abby realized a piece of that explanation.  I hope they know it is ok to say "No", to have an idea of what to wait for, and that they do have choices.  I hope it helped them gain insight into the abundant and wonderful marriage that their parents have.  I hope I showed them Jesus too.

As I tucked them into bed, Abby said, "Please just have a wedding already."

I think I'm in trouble when they wake up.

I hold

I've been blessed with the opportunity to nanny for a lovely family, traveling the month with them through London, Paris, and Rome.  

We are currently wrapping up our visit in London.

There are many enjoyable things about London, but I found the best truth wrapped up in a simple outing to Southwark Cathedral yesterday morning.  After we recited a midday prayer with other visitors, I scooped up little Abby into my arms.  There is one thing you need to know about Abby: it is so hard to look at her without wanting to cuddle her.  She knows it, too, and will often play her cards right.  On this particular morning, she simply had to be held.
The two of us strolled through the corridors surrounding the sanctuary, talking about the "sleeping stone men" on the tombs of martyrs, and how stain glass can tell us stories.  She asked me if people visit there on Sundays like we do at home, and I told her I thought they might.  Then she asked princesses have come there before.  I said yes, because she was a princess.  She gave me a grin for the books, moved my ponytail, and kissed my shoulder.  She pulled me close and whispered, "Thank you, God, for Erin."  Her head rested in my neck as we continued our walk, thanking God for people we love.  

It was my favourite moment in London.

It made me remember how small I really was.  It reminded me of how we are called towards something bigger than ourselves...that we walk earnestly alongside every other person in this life, seeking that call.  
And I didn't learn it by comparing a wristwatch to Big Ben, or by the way our offered voices traveled high in that cathedral.  Rather, it was learned through the sweetest prayer whispered in my ear; the smallest of arms around my neck.

I float

"You yourselves are our letter, written on our hearts, known and read by everyone.  You show that you are a letter from Christ, the result of our ministry, written not on tablets of stone but on tablets of the human heart."   ~2 Corinthians 3:2-3

I recently took a miniature road trip north with my friend, Gloria, to a place where you can rent tubes and float down a river.  With a rope binding us for our aquatic journey, we spent four hours creating a day that encompassed all things “summer”.  As I listened to Gloria speak with the same ease that she always does, I realized something new about her; she is really great at inviting others into God’s story for her life.  She loves deeply, she laughs constantly, and she has this contagious, engaging excitement that one can’t help but catch.  I think I’ve always admired that about her, but never really noticed that it was her ability to extend invitations into her life.  

People tend to be surprised when I claim that I’m an introvert.  I’m loud, I’m childish, and I’m expressive, but solitude is where I am most comfortable.  I’ve spent approximately 85% of this summer alone; painting constantly, drinking good wine, reading great books, and praying.  While I have spent most of my days in solitude, the ones I remember best were the few and far between that either extended or received an invitation.  

Yesterday in church, there was an activity during the liturgy that required a volunteer.  It took a grueling couple of minutes before one lone adult volunteered.  Later, the children’s worship required a volunteer; every child’s hand went up.  I can’t help but think that the older we are, the less we want to participate.  We are extended invitations to live out a beautiful story that weaves perfectly into The Story, and yet we decline because it’s easier to watch other people’s stories unfold than to live our own.  

It’s easier to sleep than to run a marathon.

It’s easier to coast through school than to think deeply.

It’s easier to flirt aimlessly than to work at a relationship.

It’s easier to cook for one than to nourish many.

It’s easier to cling to pride than invite others in.

It’s easier to fear than to take a risk.

It’s easier to write a story than to live one out.

I think that is why up until this point, I have spent my summer primarily alone.  But what makes me sad is that those countless hours of comfortable solitude go forgotten; only the moments spent in fellowship resound upon my heart.  I am in no way disregarding solitude; I am not claiming that beauty is absent from stillness.  I just know from experience that too much still solitude can cause a heart to look inward when hearts were really made for living outwardly.  And when you look inward, you miss grand opportunities to let Jesus write His story through you on tablets of the human heart.  

Don’t let life be a bunch of Thursdays strung together.

Go live better stories with other people.

Go be His story.  

Go float on a river.

I might

I believe my mother’s comment followed one of my many wildly inappropriate jokes.

“If you go to seminary, you should probably tone yourself down a little bit.”  

“What do you mean, mom?”

“Well, you used to be a little more mainstream.  I think college has made you a tad more ‘out there’ than before.”

“I know plenty of weirdos who go to seminary.  In fact, I know plenty of weirdos who don’t.  I’m weird, and I love Jesus.  I think I’m kind of endearing.”

Dad chimed in with: “Yes, yes you are endearing.”  

I watched his eyes twinkle in the rearview mirror as he looked at mom.  I know Mike truly does find me endearing, but I think he said it mostly to induce a reaction from mom.  A deep silence ensued until mom broke it by discussing lunch options.

I shocked them about two weeks ago when I told them I was considering seminary.  My empathy extended their direction; God shocked me in a similar manner when He placed the idea in front of me.  I don’t feel called by any means to be a pastor; I want to marry my passion for ministry with my creative gifts.  And somehow, He led me here…to this discussion with my parents. The discussion solicited countless curiosities:

“Does serving God cost a lot?”

“Shouldn’t you work for awhile first?”

“What if you get married?”

“Can’t you go later in life?”

“What about your art?”

“Can’t you work in a gallery?”

“Where is this coming from?”

If you’re reading this and you know me well, you know that I have a continual compulsion to run away.  When I say that, I do not aim to hurt the people who love me; I just always feel like starting new.  I often want to abandon familiarity and flee from responsibility, yet I've been thrown into an extremely blessed life.  Charmed, even.  For the most part, I’ve lived a life full of abundance, love, and whimsy.  However, that inner runner remains. So, I did what any girl in the 21st century would do:

I googled it.  

Apparently, the desire to run is related to fear…the fear of investing; the fear of pain; the fear of failure.  
This explains why my major has changed more than once. 
 It explains why I often substitute comedy for sincerity.  
It’s why I rarely date, or why I change friend circles frequently.  
It’s why I quit things that I’ve started, break promises I’ve made, talk when I should listen, or act selfishly despite the needs of others. 
I like my summers living alone at the lake house because I don’t terrify myself. 

It’s the only time I don’t feel like running away.

My grandmother is currently dying of lymph cancer.  She is also an artist and one of the primary reasons why I paint.  As time merges forward and I watch her become less and less of what she once was, I feel like pieces of me are slipping away.  Yet in these precious moments, sweeter than ever before, I see the many ways that her and I are one.  I saw her last week and told her what I often refrain from telling people.  I told her what I didn’t tell my parents because I wanted to seem prepared.  I told her what I am often too proud to tell my friends.  

I told her that I am afraid.  

I told her that I am afraid I will fail.  I told her that I’m afraid God won’t come through and use me for good.  I told her that I don’t know how to believe in myself when the odds seem against me.  I told her I am afraid of debt.  I told her I am afraid of not getting married.  I told her I am afraid the world will hate my paintings.  I told her I’m scared of not knowing why I feel pulled toward seminary.  

Then, I told her I am afraid of what the world will be like when she leaves it.

Through tears, she held me and said, “Erin, If you can fearlessly love anyone in your lifetime as much as I’ve loved you, you will have really loved.”

I am afraid to love fearlessly.

And I am sorry.

I am sharing this stream of consciousness to apologize.  I want to tell the people I love that I have often let my fears conflict with loving you well.  I haven’t been able to exhibit Christ when I try to live in fear.  I want to love people like my grandmother has loved me- full of passion, support, encouragement, and wisdom; I want to love like Jesus.  And that’s why I might go to seminary. 

My favorite of my parents’ questions was the first one I mentioned: 

“Does serving God cost a lot?”

Yes.  
Everything, in fact.

But  by not being afraid of the sacrifices that come with that cost, I think I’ll be able to love people best.  I can love people how God intended for me to in this life; I hopefully can love them more like He does. I don’t know what I will end up choosing, or where this will take me if I go.  

But for the first time in my life, I don’t feel like running.  

Each of my parents’ questions were asked with love and concern regarding my best interest.  They offered differing opinions from my own, but were willing to discuss options and bless my decision.

They trust and believe in me to bear good fruit.  

They trust and believe in me in the same way that I should trust and believe in God.

Thank you.

And mom if you are reading this, I’ll try to tone it down a little bit.

I trust

I paint.  

My mind is always moving, and my hands become restless when they can’t keep up.  I sketch during lectures.  I see fifty different colors in a field of grass.  I can’t stop thinking about the feeling of a brush against a surface.  I don’t even know why I do it, but nothing else seems quite as much like home. 

I’ve visited an oak at Riley Trails once a month since I’ve been in college; to breathe, to pray, to run away from my collegiate world of preconceived, landscaped arbor. Wild trees capture so much glory, as their roots claim ground and their arms reach high.  God has taught me most of His vital lessons under that very oak.  

Last week, I was saddened to see that it had been cut down. Many trees were cut down, including my tree- the tree where God showed me He exists; where He stripped me of fear and pride; where I’ve prayed relentlessly for my family; where He taught me the importance of loving purely; where I’ve fought with (and submitted to) Him. I took a seat on its trunk amidst the ruins, and muttered a verse from Ecclesiastes: “a time to plant and a time to uproot.”
I had come that day to pray about my calling.  

I had come to pray about painting.
Painting is a hobby.  It’s my mistress from the routine.  But a calling?  
My greatest love affair and my biggest fear.  
God is literally handing me the opportunities and the passion, yet I fear how that could possibly bear fruit in His name.  Then I looked around at those trees. Not only were they cut down; they were completely disregarded- unused, dormant, rejected. Those trees had been chopped and strewn about as if by beauty’s own bully. I often feel pursuing painting fully would be like claiming ground and reaching high, only to be cut down and strewn about.

But we don’t serve a bully. 
We serve a Redeemer.  A God incarnate whose heart understands our own.  A Suffering Servant, mocked on our behalf to pay the price for compassion on His. Upon this realization, I remembered Ecclesiastes once more: “He has made everything beautiful in its time.”  To pursue the creative act requires full trust in the same God who can use me like He used that unknowing oak to teach me lessons.  Even today, that broken tree was an instrument for my heart.   

He brings beauty to severed trees and severed souls.  

And I really want to paint that somehow.