so, this happened:

Anyen pa ka detwi kado ak plan Bondye gen pou ou. -Rom 11.29
(for the gifts and the call of God are irrevocable)

and i LOVE it.  i am actually quite obsessed with it, and not ashamed to show it off to the world.  Even my lovely Haitian mama, Lucita, who chided me in Creole not to do it told me today it was pa plis mal.

Since returning from Haiti this summer, I've been enduring a pretty hard struggle against the enemy, myself, and anxiety/depression.  It has not been easy to defeat the lies that the devil has tried to get me to believe, even when hanging on His truths and breathing by His spirit.  There have been moments of breakthrough, but seemingly wrapped in straight-jackets restraining them from the full freedom they were intended on being shrouded in.

In moments when despair seemed darker than the hope is light, this verse resonated in my heart as a reminder that whatever the Lord hath laid out for me was not hanging in the balance of possibility. My destiny in Christ is certain; independent of circumstance or the seemingly loss of joy.  The life of light, the gifts of grace and mercy, none of this depended on my ability to *feel* their tangibility.  They are my inheritance and no lie is bigger than the truth that they are irrevocable.   When I felt tormented by my inability to discern His voice, I rested in the fact that no wrong choice could separate me from His love; could negate the call He has placed on my life, the call to love Him and love like Him.

This verse offers comfort that even in this season of desolation, I am His and He is mine, that my life is still entrusted to His faithful hands, and that they would never pull the rug from beneath me, no matter how far it seemed my heart could fall from Him.

I had wanted to get another tattoo on my foot, and I couldn't think of anything quite as meaningful as this verse, especially in Creole.  I'm not as fond of the creole translation, as irrevocable doesn't exactly translate, but I know how intricately the Lord has woven Haiti into my heart, and using this translation was just a not-so-subtle reminder of how Haiti is part of those gifts and call that will also remain unchanged.

As I left the tattoo parlor Tuesday evening I felt a sense of completion, as if this literally and permanently sealed this season as it became branded to me for life.  Nothing, no not even this battle as hard as it may seem, nothing can destroy what God has for me.  I will stand, literally, on that truth for life.

pruning

it was my first drive back to school at the end of summer.  the commute is about 25 minutes/miles each way, but i don't mind it.  i particularly enjoy the stretch of country road that leads back in the hills to my school after i leave the interstate far behind me.

my favorite part of that straightaway is this large, empty yard that is dotted with a bradford-pear-tree-boundry.  they line the shoulder in lieu of the picket fence that would seem equally appropriate out here in the country.  no matter what day, what part of the year, or how much i am dreading being awake at an ungodly hour, i absolutely love driving past these trees.  springtime brings bright greens and white buds, nearly enveloping the entire tree in a cocoon of palest-pink cotton.  the petals drop, and usher in the fullest of full, summer foliage.  in the fall, they are rich in reds and golds and yellows; before too long, the leaves collect at its base, begging nostalgia to trust-fall back into its inviting, crunchy pile.  giving way to winter, even the barest of branches stand as a stoic reminder of all the beauty they once grasped.

sometime just before spring,  they pruned back the branches on these larger-than-life trees.  what was once full and blossoming, looked anemic and short and stout.  although it still got spring blossoms, it wasn't nearly as epic as it looked every other season in the past.

but driving by it last week, i noticed that even though it had been trimmed back, the foliage was thick and lush and green.  it was all very close to the trunk, as if the branches had reached out, and welcomed the leaves in a tight embrace.

as i pulled up to the school, i saw more of the bradford pears.  as i parked beneath one, i noticed how scorched the leaves were, winkley signs of their dehydration spread throughout.  some were brown, others wilted, from the record-setting Tennessee heat.  a few branches lay prostrate, paying homage to the mid-summer storm that brought them to their final resting place beneath the shade.

you see why pruning is necessary, Rhiannon? i felt the Lord whisper.

"Every branch in me that does not bear fruit he takes away, and every branch that does bear fruit he prunes, that it may bear more fruit. ³ Already you are clean because of the word that I have spoken to you. ⁴ Abide in me, and I in you. As the branch cannot bear fruit by itself, unless it abides in the vine, neither can you, unless you abide in me. ⁵ I am the vine; you are the branches. Whoever abides in me and I in him, he it is that bears much fruit, for apart from me you can do nothing. ⁶ If anyone does not abide in me he is thrown away like a branch and withers;and the branches are gathered, thrown into the fire, and burned. ⁷ If you abide in me, and my words abide in you, ask whatever you wish, and it will be done for you. ⁸  By this my Father is glorified, that you bear much fruit and so prove to be my disciples. ⁹  As the Father has loved me, so have I loved you. Abide in my love. ¹⁰  If you keep my commandments, you will abide in my love, just as I have kept my Father's commandments and abide in his love.¹¹ These things I have spoken to you, that my joy may be in you, and that your joy may be full. --John 15:2-11

I do this because I love you, He says.  I want your joy to be full, and your fruit to be plenty.  pruning is not punishment.  it's protection and provision.  as the vinedresser, i take away what's necessary for growth.  i don't come through, carelessly pulling down branches at random, leaving them at your feet as kindling for a dangerous fire.  there's a plan and a purpose.  yes, you look like you've had to shrink back.  but wait until you can see the fullness of what that looks like.  apart from this, apart from Me, your blossoms will never bloom.  just wait until you see the fruit, this beautiful fruit.  wait for me.  wait with me.  you'll see this is all in love. 

Whispers

I'm hanging onto the whispers I hear in my heart.

Stay with me, He says. Just stay with me; hold on just a little while longer.

Admittedly, I'm struggling a lot with that right now.  I'm fighting anxiety that I've never known, and a huge lack in confidence of my ability to hear and discern His voice.

So I hang onto the whisper that begs me to just stay with Him.  That He's not yet done.  I hold on a little while longer, in wait for Him.

But the battles are too much for me to withstand on my own.  And althought I know with Christ, I have no reason to fear, I still feel as if even with Him, I'll collapse under the weight. 

The Lord Himself will fight for you. Just stay calm. -Ex. 14:14

Even when I don't have the strength Lord, I know that You will fight for me.  You will take up my cause with the angels. You will protect me from the scheme of the enemy.  When my heart is fragile, You will guard it.  When my rebukes are anemic and less than threatening, You remind me all I need to speak is Jesus' name.

I declare your strength in my weakness, and Your word reminds me that that's where it's perfected. 

So in my weakness, with brittle grasp onto Your truth, I hold tightly to your whisper.  I cling to you.

It feels like starting over

Empty.

My room sits, empty, as I move back in tonight.  Since Memorial weekend, I've slept in nine beds that were not my own. 9! In three countries, two time zones, and one suitcase. For ten weeks.  The suitcase still sits in the corner of our living room, like someone detonated a bomb at the bottom of it and the clothes are bursting at every seem begging to be worn, put away, or washed.

But my room (due to exhaustion, starting back to work, and the fact my sweet subleaser just left today), sits vacant of little more than my bed, dresser, night table, and a few dresses and shirts I've hung in the closet to bring a sense of normalcy.

It's stripped. Empty. Void. Bare. Simple.

Sort of like my heart.  Minus the simple part.

I sort of like it.  I dread the thought of unpacking years' of clothing from the attic and it returning to its border-line garment-hoarding state.

It's sort of like a fresh start; it remains pure, uncorrupted by the materialism that has ensnared its owner.

And just like my heart, guarded by Christ, nothing can return  in without first coming through m, being judged and deemed perfect, good, and pleasing. I can choose to clutter it up with baggage I don't need, or I can trust that the Lord is doing this cleansing work in my life both spiritually and phsyically, symbolically, to get rid of the junk I didn't know was shoved in the bottoms of drawers or hanging deep (as deep as a 36" closet can get, at least) in my wardrobe.

So, after hours of tears and combat with the enemy over lies he's been steadily feeding me, I return to my empty room, and my bed for the first time in months.  My heart, and tear ducts, are as empty as the shoe rack on the back of my door.  It feels like starting over, because, really, it is.  He's starting over with me, and I'll be the first to admit, that's a scary thought because I know what the assent and terrain look like.  But I know that I need this.  I know that I've had to be brought here, in order to be rebuilt.

So, I guess this is the beginning. Of relearning how to do life.  Not by my standards, but by His.  Of relearning to hear His voice, stand firm in His truth, to beat off lies like a cockroach in a corner.  To only fill the closet of my heart with garments of His glory and righteousness, with His truth, with thoughts of goodness and nobility and purity.

Empty is the best place to be, because it means you've been purged of everything, positive and negative, and left with nothing more than space for Him to do His work.

I still see you.

The jagged, grey stone jetted out into the ocean deep, and reached to the sky as if it longed to return to its home in outer space.  To my limited lunar knowledge, it looked as if it had spent a few million years orbiting earth, but the calcified stones and fossilized shells suggest it had been present on earth for quite some time.

The pink and grey tones of the volcanic cove were revealed at the base of the gigantic structure each time the ocean  pulled back like a slingshot to launch the next wave at the awe-invoking rocks.  It was a sight unlike anything I've ever seen, and with each pull of the tide, I found my chest empty of breath and word.  

I imagined this is what the world looked like at creation.  The land and the sea, the rock and the waves.  No sound aside from the violent crashing of water upon the enormous rocks protruding into the ocean.

As one of the waves crashed below me, it sprayed up the thirty-foot cliff and landed at the back of my feet. "I haven't forgotten you," whispered the Lord.  "I still see you. You're not out of my reach."

Without even anticipating it, the Lord's sweet words were more refreshing than the seaside breeze on a hot, Haitian afternoon.  He's so good to remember His children, always.