home is the place where, in the dark hallway, the doorknob is right where you remember it.
two months is the longest I’ve stayed anywhere continuously in this calendar year. and with the prospect of another ten to twenty-two ahead, the question is no longer how to begin, but how to continue to dwell, to settle, to plant gardens and stay a time, allowing the work of tending to be patient and expansive, until the fruit is borne, and to seek the peace and prosperity of a land where each spoken word marks me an outsider.
in trying to tell the Big Stories of the last two months, i have found myself drawn instead to the moments. i have a distinct memory of standing on the porch of a 100 year old home hit hard by the august floods. i had been talking with the eighty-nine year old resident between puffs on his nebulizer, an aid to breathing through his coal-black lungs. this man lives alone and has no deeper desire than to welcome us ragtag carpenters as guests in his home, to show us the love of the god who has been steadfast in the trials and abundant in the blessings.
i clasped the knife in my pocket, realizing most fundamental tool of man’s orchestration is an instrument of separation. man has always taken pride in the ability to cut away, to compartmentalize, to separate cleanly and without emotion.
this denies the work of a god who brought all things together, and then dwelt in his good work, never abandoning it, never allowing it to fall into disrepair.
the grand train of Progress built herself a waystation in these resource-rich hills, promising to one day connect with the grander Scheme of Civilization, promising that it would be worthwhile to abandon the Old Ways, the Traditions, that the bigger boxes could subsume the local business without cost, and that the golden arches could nourish far better than the pot of soup beans. but She was not committed to a long sustenance, her vision did not extend past profit, she was not patient enough for the mutually beneficial work of dwelling together. and when partnership was no longer convenient, the land and people no longer useful, she set her course for novelty and bustle and movement, creating a cold line of separation, and a people aching to see life in an abandoned train station.
creation is synthesis. but any observer of the natural world will tell you the ingredients are often disparate and suprising, and the processes more involved than we want them to be. a house, once built, must be cared for with the utmost love and attentiveness. the work of staying and caring for a place is just as vital as the burst of energy which initally Brings Together. we cannot carve out separate niches for our home, our work, and our soul, as though it were possible to move in one without impacting the others. and my heart cannot live divided between the two glorious mountain ranges it has learned to call home.
a weekend indulgence in academic and city life and music and food, filled with heightened conversations about home and place and vital connections, made more tangible the anxious walls between outsiders and insiders, between those who are pushing forward, and those who are left behind. those who do not have the luxury of choosing to participate in these conversations, for whom a weekend in the city is just as fanciful as an overnight in buckingham palace. these are the ones who are yet to receive their invitation to shape their communities beyond shoulds and imitations, to reach for the same echelons of beauty outside the confines of high society culture. these are the ones to whom we must learn to listen.
these months have been rich with the rambling sweetness of our finitude, the pungent, holy, audacity of grace in the ordinary, which speaks the love of the Father stronger than any cleverly crafted turn of phrase. i am being pared down over and over again, separated from certainty and invincibility and exceptionalism.
a fear of how far this paring down could shape me, how far this quest to shed the dragon’s scales could go, moves me away from words and reading and writing and talking and i play the same. four. chords. because at least i know the shapes and the structure provides freedom to dance without fear of creating something unsavory.
for there have been far too many phrases of poetic urgency dancing ‘cross my mind to be able to make space to do any of them justice. the ground we dig is rich with coal, a thin vein of vibrant resource; so, too, are these mountains rich with stories. each aching to be seen and known, told and cherished. i hope to create space for some of the stories that have been entrusted to me, and to tell my own stories with as much richness and honesty.
the heart of an artist is relentlessly invitational, beating with a resonant fury that seeks to draw the other into the beauty and truth of one’s own experience. “come, taste, and see – all that is good, all that is holy, all that is beautiful.” this soul is not content to keep quiet about it’s dance with the great mystery – artists are perhaps the first and most relentless evangelicals – they desire to show the world through their work a better, truer vision of it’s own self.
may this be a season where bandages are finally removed, so that what has been healed can be seen and celebrated. may this be a time where disparate pieces are brought together, where we no longer feel compelled to live along divided lines of clean separations, defined by ins and outs. may our restless hearts learn to dwell in rhythms of grace towards ourselves and towards each other, and may we find them to be free and unforced.
send me your light and your faithful care,
let them lead me;
let them bring me to your holy mountain,
to the place where you dwell.