Broken Screws

"You've had an Iowa license before, right?" The lady in the DMV office compared my birth certificate, Social Security card, Washington driver's license, and Iowa bank statement.

I nodded. My first driver's license had come from Iowa. When I traded it in for my Washington license at age 18, the friendly DOL man had punched a W-shaped hole in my Iowa license and given it back to me. I glued it fondly into my scrapbook, expecting it to be my last Iowa-issued form of ID.

Now I found myself in the county courthouse, trading in my Washington license. Not only that, but this time, I had license plates to swap, as well. So, $91 later, I walked out of the office with my temporary driver's license, Iowa vehicle title, registration paper, and license plates.

Washington license plates stay with the vehicle, even when sold—for as long as it remains registered in The Evergreen State. Apparently, every 7 years, the state issues new license plates to make sure they're still reflective. However, because of my history with vehicles (think: snowy, muddy, deer-infested mountains), that never happened to me. Hence, I've never had to change the plates on any of my vehicles.

Until Thursday.

I had a busy week, between work deadlines, college deadlines, and midwifery appointments. Although I actually brought the plates home on Wednesday, I put the job off until Thursday evening—and I only did it then because I needed to drive the vehicle on Friday. I expected this to be a quick job, that even a mechanically disinclined, domestic and desk trained little woman could accomplish. After all, I know how to use a screwdriver.

But Queen Vashti proved quite unwilling to change her identity.

The front plate unscrewed without too much hassle. When it came time to replace the grand sketch of Mount Rainier with a peaceful, pastoral farm scene, though, I had to take a cue from the previous owner and get a bit creative with duct tape. (Nothing fraudulent here, mind you. The tape held the washers and nuts in place long enough for the screws to bite in.)

The plastic screws in the back, however, spun and spun and spun—in both directions—to no avail.

So now Queen Vashti had divided allegiance. I could just picture myself explaining these incorrigible screws to an officer.

I must have twisted those screws 10 minutes before my parents came back from their evening walk. Just the opportunity I'd awaited. Giving my distress call, I perched on my heels and waited for Papa to come and show me the easy, obvious solution.

Instead, he walked me through a difficult process: sticking our hands into a cramped space up behind the bumper, grasping the nut, and unscrewing. Well, that worked for the bottom two—but there was no getting even my little hand up to grasp the nuts behind the top two screws.

So he broke the heads off.

Next came the most difficult portion: again wiggling my hand up behind the bumper—but this time hanging onto the nut all the way. Finagling it into position, and keeping it steady while he screwed the Iowa plate on. By the end of the evening, I had tiny fiberglass splinters in my hand.

For the top right corner, Pa found a screw in his workbench that bit in just right without any nut behind it. The top left...well, it's true. My car now has a missing screw. But let's be optimistic. After 50+ miles, the license plate is still on and doesn't appear to be loose. Vashti has been forced into Iowa citizenship.

She's just a car, and doesn't have a choice. And yet at the time, it surely seemed she was putting up a fight. "No! Take me back!" she screamed through her unwilling screws. "I am a Washington car, and I want to stay that way!"

I've heard a few other screams like that, this week—coming from within. Sorry Northwesterners, but I'm not actually talking about wistfulness to move back to the mountains. I'm thinking more of my eternal citizenship.

By birth and by choice, I became a citizen of Earth. But I have an invitation to immigrate, and I'm working on my "papers." I've told the Master that I want to be a citizen of Heaven.

Sometimes, though, when He turns the screws, so to speak, without even realizing it I start resisting. I freeze up and say, "Nope, this screw doesn't come out, Sir. I have this way of thinking, this desire. I really want it, and it's not changing. Sure, go ahead and put in Your new screws. I want to integrate them, but I'm sure that You'll see they don't fit in the hole where You're trying to place them."

The Master pauses. "I thought you wanted to be a citizen of Heaven."

"Well, hmm. I thought so too. But are you sure about this screw? It wouldn't budge even if I wanted it to."

Maybe I should be specific, since this week I encountered a very specific "unwilling screw." I've been hung up on the concept in this brief thought: "There is no love greater than Mine in earth or heaven. [Your] greatest happiness will be found in loving Me."*

Really? But I really want an exclusive love. God has six billion other people plus millions of angels. Doesn't that make me less special? After all, I'm one of many, many daughters.

I wrestled with it, grappled with it, turned it around and looked at all the sides I could find.

In the end, I realized I had a simple choice: Believe Him that His love was the greatest I could ever find, and that I would never be happier than when worshiping and loving Him. Or keep insisting on a specific kind of love I want—and if God isn't lying, never be satisfied.

Trust Him that He's God and can love me like there is no one else, even though there are plenty of others—that He can love me and His others better simultaneously than anybody could love me with their complete, undistracted focus. Or keep searching.

Rest in Him. Or keep striving and wearing myself out.

Keep myself in the immigration process—or drop out and remain subject of Earth.

"OK, Father. Go ahead and break the screw."

* The Desire of Ages, page 57.

Rearview Reflections

The sun shone hot last Sunday afternoon as I turned the key in Queen Vashti's ignition. It had been a fun and refreshing weekend at Lydia's, but I had studying to do at home. For now, though, my biggest decision was whether to run the AC or open the sunroof.

Easing out of the tight parking slot, I craned my neck to be sure not to hit the electrical pole smack behind me—or the neighbor's car in the driveway next to it. They really didn't leave much room in this alley...or this parking spot...you had to turn the wheel just right....

Scrape.

Oops.

In concentrating behind me, I'd failed to check the front corner of the car. Judging from the dents in the downspout on the corner of the garage, I was not the first to make this mistake. Thankfully, the damage to the pipe was negligible, and Queen Vashti's could have been much worse. Still, she did have a white bruise on her bumper. Not a dent (phew). Her own paint seemed mostly intact, but a bit of white paint from the pipe had rubbed off onto her. Nothing big.

Still.

Well, no sense crying over scraped bumpers. I enjoyed the sunny ride, alternating between AC and open sunroof.

Back home in my driveway, I peeled off as much of the white paint as I could. Then I scraped at it with my fingernails. Then I rubbed at it with a rag and some mild solvent.

My efforts greatly diminished the damage. But I'm afraid I can't undo all of it.

As I scrubbed, scratched, and peeled, I thought about how much of my life I'm spent looking behind me. Looking back on the trail to see how far up the mountain I've come. Looking back to relive happy memories—sometimes to long for the "good old days." Looking back to examine my childhood through adult eyes. Looking back to remember how God has led me. Looking back to find the roots of my present thoughts, feelings, and behavior. Looking back to recount to others the lessons I've learned along the way. Looking back with remorse, confusion, or sorrow. Looking back with nostalgia, delight, and contentment. Sometimes, looking back with bitterness. Other times, looking behind me with deep gratitude.

Looking behind us has useful functions. If I had a bogey man behind me, I'd want to know. If a child is following me, I need to keep track of her. When I'm in reverse, I want to know what's behind me. (Honestly, I'd rather have scraped the corner than hit the pole!) Sometimes, we need to look backward, even move backward, before we can move forward again.

Someone wise has said, "We have nothing to fear for the future except as we shall forget the way the Lord has led us."

"And you shall remember that the Lord your God led you all the way . . . to humble you and test you, to know what was in your heart, whether you would keep His commandments or not" (Deuteronomy 8:2).

Sometimes we need to look back and remember. We need to see our mistakes, feel our pain, understand what went wrong—and see God's faithfulness, how He's cherished and led us. We need to learn from what is behind us so that we can use the lessons as we move forward.

But it is possible to look back too much. If I'm living in the past instead of the present—it's too much. If I'm looking back so much that I'm not looking forward, it's too much. "I press on . . . forgetting those things which are behind and reaching forward to those things which are ahead, I press toward the goal" (Philippians 3:12-14).

As the wise man wrote, "To everything there is a season" (Ecclesiastes 3:1). We should make time for reflection—but not to the exclusion of projection! Tears have their place; so does laughter. Today must be a mixture of yesterday's experiences and tomorrow's dreams.

A little white bruise on my car will remind me.

Thanks for the Pain

Being an effective writer means being vulnerable. It means delving deep into the inner realm of human emotions and putting to words what everyone feels but few express. It means opening our secret chambers to view to let others see that their eccentricities, awkward thoughts, and inner agonies do not isolate them from the rest of humanity. Writers unlock the vault of emotion and allow humanity to feel united through our common, unspoken struggles.

Still, it is more comfortable to share through the voice of a third party—a story of someone else's experience. Sharing other people's struggles still makes us dig within ourselves to find and express the unspoken thoughts and feelings of humanity—but without the incrimination of its being our story. If we must share our own, the most comfortable choices are historical events far enough behind us that we can laugh, shrug, or at least assure ourselves that we have since grown.

But nobody's experiences are finished up and neatly sealed off. (We call those memories, and even most memories have unresolved threads.) It's what we are experiencing that creates our need for help.

When I was a toddler, my dad dubbed me "the one who admits it." As it turns out, he made both a descriptive and prophetic statement. I hereby publicly accept the calling.

I had a crazy week—and by that I mean that I felt loco. I only left the 40 acres once, but my emotions sang the scale below Middle C almost all day, every day. I went to bed burnt out and woke up wishing for bedtime—or at least my afternoon walk. I fought tears and lost three or more times most every day.

There's a big problem with this. It isn't me. I'm the girl who laughed, smiled, and acted normal enough the day after a major break-up that my closest girlfriend wondered if the ordeal was still bothering me. (It was, of course—but the tears of my soul often flow inside sealed chambers.)

This Monday morning, I found myself kneeling in prayer and sobbing. Now, usually, I would pray it through, tell my face muscles to smile, start singing Steve Green's "Always", and go have a great day. Or at least pretend to have a great day.

This time, as I prayed, the still small voice seemed to tell me to go ask my mom for a hug.

I didn't exactly want to. I knew Mom would be tender and understanding, but it isn't my style to ask for emotional help. Still, the thought persisted, so I dragged myself to her room.

When Mom saw my tears, her mouth dropped open. "What happened?"

That was the problem. "Nothing," I had to whimper. "I just need a hug." I clung to her and sobbed on her shoulder for quite awhile before I could admit that my tears had been caused by something that had happened 51 weeks before. Humiliating—but I learned something. Compassion doesn't put people through an application process. When people are hurting, I shouldn't judge if they have a legitimate reason, and give them a glorified "move on and get over it." I should take the raw pains of years gone by just as seriously as yesterday's wound.

The week continued, and I just kept struggling. I'd think of my dog's death, and the tears would well up. I would try to study for my Western Civilization I CLEP exam, and feel like the biggest history dunce ever. I'd remember a friend in Washington, and cry just for missing them.

Then I'd send up a prayer and claim a promise. I'd choose to be happy. Get a drink of water. Have a happy mealtime conversation. Go for a walk. It wasn't that the usual fixes didn't work—they just didn't work for long. Sooner than I wished, I'd be standing in the need of prayer once again.

On Tuesday I roamed the woods like usual, talking to God about how humiliated I felt to be struggling with...should I call it depression? Had this ever happened to me since I'd learned about choosing to be happy? And since even this week I'd repeatedly claimed and reveled in His precious promises, why would this ache not go away? What was going on with Cheyenne? I want to be who He is making me into, I let Him know; but I really did like the way He'd had me before.

Or did I? Hadn't I been praying for compassion?

"Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of mercies and God of all comfort, who comforts us in all our tribulation, that we may be able to comfort those who are in any trouble, with the comfort with which we ourselves are comforted by God" (2 Corinthians 1:3, 4).

A strange awareness welled up inside. Could it really be?

"God," my voice quivered, "thank You for the pain. Thank You for allowing me this unexplained struggle so that I can sympathize with others who are struggling."

Thursday evening. Crying into my pillow. Mom came in for worship, and began telling me other friends' sorrows. Big things. Bad things. Recent things. Not the historic drama causing my tears.

"Oh, honey, are you crying?" Mom's face melted in sympathy, and she laid her head down next to mine. I could see the pain in her eyes just from seeing mine. I hadn't even started talking yet.

When I did, she listened and helped me sort out what's really going on.

Today on my walk, I thanked God for the pain again. I really do want that compassion He's teaching me.

Even more, I want helpless reliance on Him. I want to know to the core where to hang my soul—and how.

So, in the sea of seemingly silly sorrows, I have kept afloat through the power in prayer, sympathy, and the Word. "I will bless the Lord at all times; His praise shall continually be in my mouth.... I sought the Lord, and He heard me, And delivered me from all my fears. They looked to Him and were radiant, ... This poor [woman] cried out, and the Lord heard [her], And saved [her].... There is no want to those who fear Him.... Those who seek the Lord shall not lack any good thing" (Psalm 34:1, 4-6, 9, 10).

Jesus chose to be brutalized by human pain so that He could understand me and test the strength of His promises. Now He offers me the same blessed experience.

Yes.

Thank You.

Amen.

Daring Dreams

Perhaps it's because I opted not to put up curtains, and the moon shines through my windows freely. Or maybe it's because my major current occupation is thinking (in several variations). Or perhaps it's because my social life has been quiet, and my mind likes to hatch up plots. Anyway, lately I've awakened remembering more dreams than average.

Usually, I've been glad to end the involuntary imaginations. For instance, I dreamed that my late (yet still beloved) dog, Kodiak, had been kidnapped and needed rescue. I dreamed of learning a dark secret from a good friend's childhood. I dreamed that a hiker buddy died. I dreamed I went back to Inchelium, WA, and didn't quite fit in anymore. (I dreamed plenty of less dramatic plots as well. I'd tell you about them—if I could remember.)

I dream in the daytime, too; but daydreams are merely the products of ordinary wistfulness. Conversations I'd like to have with friends. People and places I'd like to visit. Hugs. Special events. How to get to know people better. How to heal from hurts and frustrations. What to do with the rest of my life.

But dreams differ significantly from goals. Dreams can be ridiculous, emotional, over-sized, lofty, or repining. Dreams are fairy tales you wish would just happen. Goals are determinations you intend to make happen.

The non-traditional, accelerated college program I'm enrolled in* starts out every student's studies with a Life Purpose Planning workbook, with pages full of exercises to help young people answer the question, "Why am I here?"

I'll admit it. I was skeptical at first. I'm 26, and I think I have a good idea of who I am, what my interests and passions are, and what I'd like to experience and accomplish in life. But, since I also enjoy healthy introspection, I plunged in. I answered those questions about my strong and weak points, activities I enjoy, how I learn and relate, people who have influenced me, callings I have accepted for my life, lifelong dreams & aspirations, and who I feel particularly drawn to minister to. I thought about failures and successes. I pinpointed the "biggest need" I see in the people around me, and how to model my life to address that need.

Then, I wrote out a "life purpose statement." Mind if I share?

I am resolved to live in total surrender to God and to let my heart be immersed and satisfied in the truth of His love—and to share this fulfilled experience with all who are hurting and longing for something better. Through writing, speaking, friendship, teaching, listening, and mentoring, I seek to influence, encourage, and disciple children, teenagers, young adults, and women in all walks of life (but especially the abused, oppressed, and forgotten) so that they too can find in Jesus the fulfillment of all their needs, and reach their own full potential. I want to share with all I can influence that the Lord heals the broken-hearted, that He satisfies the needs and longings of the heart—but that we need to be real, candid, and honest with ourselves and Him for this to happen. I want to help others see that they have an incredible worth—an unshakeable worth rooted in the love of God for them—worth that can't be annulled by the careless and uncaring people around them. I want to exemplify a life totally set apart for God, totally willing to follow and obey (wherever He sends me), and totally willing to share my own deep experiences for the enrichment of other lives.

A lofty dream. I found myself enamored. My college coach responded: "Pure beauty. . . . How?"

How. A question that pulls us down from the euphoric heights of daring dreams, to the human reality of finiteness.

I had two choices: allow my dreams to remain beautiful, untainted, unfulfilled dreams—or to turn them into goals.

Goals are practical. They aren't always glamorous. Goals can be simple, plain, and unsung. But goals propel us toward our dreams, and because of that, goals are priceless.

I took my daring dream to the God who gave it to me. I asked Him how to make it realistic. Then, together, we started breaking the dream down into strategies, large and small.

• Pray & study to understand God's love and my worth to Him.
• Memorize texts on God's love & human worth.
• Intercede for people I know are hurting.
• Write articles that are relevant to people's lives.
• Blog.
• Send encouraging letters.
• Deepen superficial friendships, seek out new friends, and take time to listen to friends who already trust me.
• Seek personal healing through the Word, books, DVD series, etc.
• Minister through tangible acts of service.
• Study great communicators.

The list goes on. But even these items can be a bit too lofty for real, nitty-gritty, everyday life.

So (with the help of the workbook), I've made a calendar. By the end of March, have Psalm 34 memorized. In April, do Psalm 37. In March, start re-reading The Desire of Ages. Start writing weekly notes to encourage friends and acquaintances (I've even got specific names on the docket). Observe the people I associate with at midwifery study groups and try to pinpoint in what ways they are hurting. Read a new book a friend recommended, about finding our worth in God. Pursue a friendship with a girl I've just become reacquainted with. Make a prayer list. Pray for compassion.

All of these items have dates and deadlines attached to them. They are specific, measurable, attainable, relevant, and time-sensitive (S.M.A.R.T. goals). They may not be dazzlingly romantic, or even the essence of the "pure beauty" reflected in my life purpose statement. But they are threads in the tapestry. They are pieces of the picture. They are steps up the mountain I seek to climb. They are things I can work toward today.

Because of this, I can look at even my little goals as daring dreams. Except these dreams I know how to accomplish.

Some dreams (like the ones I wake up remembering each morning) are better discarded. Some are sentimental, wistful, even silly. But a golden few are just too good to not come true—especially when we can choose and determine to make them happen.

Will you dare to make your dreams come true?

*College Plus. See http://www.collegeplus.org/tf/9009.

Mice

The mittens in my trunk supplied all the evidence needed for the indictment. Their warm layers, from the soft Thinsulate inner lining to the weather-resistant nylon shell, had been shredded to bite-sized crumbs that now littered the floor. Annoyed, I snatched up my down jacket for an inspection. Phew! The mouse hadn't munched on it.

My dad advised me to haul in everything chewable from my car...and I thought I had. Still, each time I got into my car after that, I found more evidence of the unwanted resident. Papers from my trash bag shredded on the floor. Scat underneath the driver's seat. More holes in cloth items I hadn't noticed when I cleaned out the trunk.

The first time I set traps, I found the peanut butter licked off clean, the trigger still set and ready to fire. The second time it happened, I brought the traps in for inspection. My dad and I played around with them for awhile to see how to work around the poor, hard-to-trip design (a "safety" feature?). I didn't reset them right away...and then, well...I guess I forgot about it.

The kitchen at church belies the presence of mice, too. Last month we came in to find one of the ladies wiping the counters with bleach. We have to wash out the dishes before we use them to serve the fellowship meal. The deaconesses keep saying they're going to get some traps or poison and dispatch the church mice.

Curled up on the couch in the youth room yesterday after lunch, I thought I detected a slight movement on the floor. Not feeling well, I didn't really want to sit up and check it out. No problem—I still got a good viewing. The mouse scurried into the middle of the room, looked around, then arced back toward the other couch and sat looking at me from the safety of the shadows. His perfect little profile made me smile: big, funneled ears; plump body; long, slender tail; and pointy nose twitching as he looked sweetly on.

Then I remembered who he was. Dragging myself up, I shuffled out to the kitchen to tell the ladies about the sighting. "Why didn't you catch it?" they laughed.

Nestled again on the comfy couch, I got another good sighting of my little friend. I don't know why I went to tell the other women again. When I saw them involved in conversation, I simply turned and went back to my hideout. This time, the mouse kept hidden, too.

Stretched out on my own bed later that evening, I thought again about the mice. When I remembered the damage to my mittens, the evasion of the traps, and the troubles they caused in the church, I felt silly for my affection for the cute mouse in the youth room. A more stereotypical response would have been a shriek; a more appropriate emotion, disgust. But that mouse, I liked. If he could promise not to do any damage, I'd want him to stay.

But of course he can't promise that. He's a mouse! Mice belong outside my car, outside of buildings, and certainly outside the church—the way sin belongs outside my heart. If either one is caught inside, they've got to be exterminated.

And then it hit me. Just this week I'd been admiring a cute little sin. I let it stick around awhile, just looking and thinking how it didn't seem to be hurting anything. Most sin, I agree, is raunchy. But this? I shamefully admit it—I found this little sin rather sweet.

I'd had a talk with God about it, told Him I didn't understand what could be wrong with what I wanted permission to do. When He didn't seem to answer, I realized I needed to take His written Word for it. Wrong is what God defines as wrong—not what I see as hurtful. And then, once I repented and surrendered, He let me see how my cute little sin really did hurt people.

A few days later, as an extra reminder, He sent a cute mouse to reinforce the lesson.

I found the mouse traps again today, and set them out in my car. I've been too laid back about these critters, but now I'm ready to take them on. Once I dispatch the car mouse, I'll take the traps to church, as well.

More importantly, I'm going to restock my spiritual defenses with prayer, watchfulness, and memorization. I've been too lackadaisical there too, or else I wouldn't have found my sin the slightest bit cute. Mice chew up fabric and dirty up buildings. Sin tears and smudges the human soul. I can't afford to let it stick around my heart!

Hidden Grime

Company: the kind of people you clean your house for. Prestigious company: the kind who motivate you to scour it. When I got out the long-armed feather duster on Friday, Mom thanked me but said she intended to dust properly today. So, putting away the "quick 'n' dirty" tool, I got out the rags and oil soap.

Although it had been awhile since we'd formally dusted, the house really looked fine to me. After all, we don't burn wood for heat, and the snow and mud haven't given the road a chance to kick up plumes of dust. Never mind. We had company tomorrow.

Maybe it's because we always keep the dishes washed and the rooms picked up and tidy; or perhaps I don't notice the grime my mom sees because the place doesn't belong to me. Still, I think it's more than that. In the absence of grandkids, our house is a never mess, because Mom doesn't give it the chance to get truly dirty. But for company, of course, we'd make it perfect.

I expected to fly through Friday's dusting and be on to the next task; but today, of course, I had to be extra thorough. The first rag collected more filth than I'd expected to find in all the house! The crevices in the wooden furniture had actually accumulated thick layers. The feather duster hadn't gotten up close underneath the candles and other knickknacks. The lampshades had a thin film I'd never noticed before I started cleaning.

Most shocking of all were the corners. Behind the draping leaves of a viney houseplant I found cobwebs, dog hair, dead ladybugs, and wads of dust caked onto the legs of the plant stand. How could such grime be hidden in our cleanly dining room? Why had I never even partially noticed it? The ordinary film on the horizontal surfaces I'd seen and intended to whisk away—but this was no typical accumulation of dust. This was filth.

Hidden grime, obscured behind the beautiful, trailing leaves of a plant I've often admired. Even the best of housekeepers could miss it—till the leaves were drawn aside. It probably would have stayed hidden longer, if it hadn't been for the company, because no one would have investigated behind those lovely leaves.

It felt like an insult, finding that hidden grime in our clean house. Insult? Hmm...maybe a rebuke. Not that we'd put the plant there to hide the filthy corner; we'd simply forgotten to clean the corner because the plant had it covered so well. Neglect, all the same.

This time, I lingered in that corner, carefully cleaning away the grime. I didn't mind the work, because it inspired deeper thoughts. How many corners hide filth in my mind, my character, my soul? Behind the traits that others admire, what grime have I stashed away? Bitterness, resentment, egotism, jealousy, lust, pride, distrust, unbelief? Do I even know myself what's there—or have I been satisfied with my good housekeeping?

It takes extra investigation to find dust in the soul I've always tried to keep tidy. It's not intuitive to peek behind my strong points and check for ghastly faults and sin-inflicted wounds. Still, it's worth the probing. After all, a prestigious Visitor wants to be my guest. "Behold, I stand at the door and knock. If anyone hears My voice, and open the door, I will come in to him and dine with him, and he with Me" (Revelation 3:20).

Then again, I need His help to find and eliminate my hidden grime. I think I'll just let Him in "as is," and we can work on those corners together.

Tears of the Soul

"Your Aunt Janis is in the newspaper!" Mom handed me the Saturday issue of the Des Moines Register.

From the headline, I knew why my aunt had made the state news. Aunt Janis heads up the annual Suicide Survivors' Walk in Des Moines, Iowa each year, and she speaks regularly on suicide and drug abuse at churches, schools, and special events. I scanned the article, looking for a quote with my aunt's name behind it.

Instead, I found a whole page full of the stories of teen suicides. Not a line or two, but several paragraphs had been devoted to Neil Linquist. I tried to distract myself by reading other stories, but my cousin's name in bold type drew my eyes back. My throat constricted and my stomach tightened. It was like seeing his obituary all over again. As I read the column of print, I marveled at my aunt's courage to travel around the state telling his story in unashamed detail. Forcing down the last few bites of breakfast, I fled to my room.

Falling to my knees, I burrowed my head in my elbow and leaned against my the bed. Bitter tears and sobs shook my torso as memories of my little cousin played in my mind's theater. Would it ever be possible to "get over" this pain? Other hurts I have grieved over, forgiven, and nearly forgotten—others I am still working through. But more than six years since the day I got the horrific phone call, I found myself weeping as though it had been last month.

My mind drifted back to the days, weeks, and months following my trip to the funeral. The first few days, my friends had been sympathetic and freely asked how well I'd been coping. But all too soon I had found myself alone to deal with my pain—states away from my family, surrounded by an environment that felt too awkward to rehash the pain. I could understand. I wouldn't have known what to say to me either. Still, my ragged heart yearned for someone to listen and not act self-conscious about my family's dark sorrow.

I wanted to be able to share the tears of my soul. Instead, I cried them into my bottled heart and sealed the lid.

I'm not alone. Those few special people who share their hearts with me tell me of deep chasms of pain, anger, and confusion that go unspoken to the world. In the lives of many who don't tell me, I can read the story of neglect, abuse, disappointment, and bitterness—tears of the soul bottled up so well that often even their possessors don't know they exist. We buck up and bear it before our friends and colleagues, but inside we're ravished with pain, unfulfilled longings, and shame.

And yet, knowing this, I'm still guilty. I treat people as though they aren't hurting and longing for a deeper life. I let misdirected expressions of someone else's own pain offend me. I build walls around my heart and shut out those whose own stinging chronicle of woes prevents them from being able to understand mine.

To all of these troubles, there is one shining solution: Understanding my worth to God. For in doing so, I find One who will listen to every sad tale I could tell. In Him I have a Friend who doesn't feel awkward about my recital of the shame of my past or the ache in my heart. His love soothes the pain and fills the emptiness. And through His eyes of love for me, I begin to understand how He sees those who hurt and neglect me—how He loves them—how they, too, are suffering deep wounds.

"Blessed be God, Who has not turned away my prayer, nor His mercy from me!" (Psalm 66:20)

"A father of the fatherless, a defender of widows, is God" (Psalm 68:5).

"Surely He has borne our griefs, and carried our sorrows" (Isaiah 53:4). "In all their affliction He was afflicted" (Isaiah 63:9).

" 'With everlasting kindness I will have mercy on you,' says the Lord, your Redeemer. . . . For the mountains shall depart, and the hills be removed, but My kindness shall not depart from you" (Isaiah 54:7, 10).

"Thus says the Lord . . . I have called you by your name; you are Mine. . . . Since you were precious in My sight, you have been honored, and I have loved you" (Isaiah 43:1, 4).

"He heals the brokenhearted, and binds up their wounds" (Psalm 147:3).

"You hold me by my right hand" (Psalm 73:23).

"Beauty for ashes, the oil of joy for mourning, the garment of praise for the spirit of heaviness" (Isaiah 61:3).

"The Lord delights in you" (Isaiah 62:4).

"For great is Your mercy toward me, and You have delivered my soul from the depths. . . . You, O Lord, are a God full of compassion, and gracious, longsuffering and abundant in mercy and truth. Oh, turn to me, and have mercy on me!" (Psalm 86:13, 15, 16).

"Because Your lovingkindness is better than life" (Psalm 63:3).

Comforted in the realest love the universe knows, I find strength to continue my day. Challenged and humbled by that love, I join in a new resolution with a dear friend: "A friendship that dreams up ways to help and bless others instead of laughing at them or gossiping about petty annoyances." Stirred by the pain of unnumbered hurting treasures, I purpose to be a comforting, safe, encouraging friend—unashamed to hear, cry, and feel the tears of the soul.

Bruises

The big purple blotch on the top of my foot spread from toe to toe, and halfway back to the base of my ankle. It looked like it ought to hurt—and yet, I couldn't remember incurring the injury. I pressed on the bruise with a finger. Sure enough! It felt tender and sensitive. How had I hurt myself? Had I tripped, fallen, dropped my suitcase on my foot . . . ? I could only guess.

Although this bruise did rival others in size and ugliness, it didn't alarm me. Ever since I was small, I've been accruing scrapes and bruises, wounds and scars by various klutzy maneuvers. I promptly forget the ouchy incidents—after all, they're too numerous and minor to save in long-term memory. And yet, the reminders remain. Under my skin, broken blood vessels regenerate their walls and clean up the damaged cells. Burns blister and scab over. Broken skin knits itself back together, often leaving faint scars as records of pain I can't even recall. My quick dismissal of my little accidents doesn't lessen the labor my cells must go through for healing.

Another kind of wound surprises and concerns me more than bruises and broken skin. Sometimes I find hurts buried inside my heart, ignored and neglected so long that I can't even remember who or what inflicted them. In fact, I often don't know these "bruises" exist until—whoops—I've found myself reacting to life and relationships in unhealthy ways. When I stop to notice, I find unresolved bitterness, pride, pain, and resentment.

Unlike superficial injuries, this sort of wound can't be healed by busy cells without my conscious effort. It takes careful examination and a trip to the Divine Doctor to truly resolve these internal issues. His love and His instructions can soothe and heal any hurt. Frequently, though, the healing process intensifies the pain for a time, and that can sometimes be hard to enjoy. Too often I'm tempted to cover my hurts back up and ignore the root issues; it seems much more convenient to remain in "ignorance" of my wounds and their origins. Unfortunately, this only increases my sinful responses—and the bitter ache.

I'd be concerned if that bruise on my foot hadn't healed by now. Thankfully, it has. And now to tend the ones inside. Guess what? I'm finding it's worth it!

The Test of a Calling

In every notable room in my parents' house, simple wooden shelves whisper volumes to anyone who stops to observe. They tell the purpose and function of not only the room, but also the people who use that room most. This ordinary furniture tells the secrets of thoughts, goals, dreams, and desires.

In my mother's office, the bookcase is loaded with volumes on two topics: spiritual instruction, and natural health and healing. The shelves in my father's studio host an eclectic assortment of artsy trinkets—and music books. The bookcases in the living room reflect their shared interests: gardening, traveling, family photos, hiking, nature identification. Like the pictures on the refrigerator, bookcases—full, empty, or absent—can help you get to know even a stranger.

I thought carefully when selecting the books for the shelves in my bedroom. I chose the books that I thought I would read and refer to most—and I boxed the rest up. Only later did I realize what the bookcase had to say about my passions, dreams, and interests.

Three of my seven shelves support books on birth, midwifery care, and home remedies. I placed them in the bookcase first, since I am, after all, a midwifery student. Two more shelves hold my spiritual books—not all of them, but the most special, as well as the ones I plan to read this year.

The remaining two shelves didn't make as much sense to me when I unpacked my books; I simply arranged them how my heart mandated. A few inspirational self-help books on personalities, relationships and romance, healing from past hurts. A handful of music books. My dictionary and thesaurus, Chicago Manual of Style, and Stein on Writing. Three empty journals received as gifts, twelve already filled, and one in progress. My writer's notebook, my binder full of Writer's Digest articles, and my writer's portfolio.

"The test of a calling, to me, is this," a friend recently remarked. "Can you do anything else? If so, do it."

When I left my job at Young Disciple, I didn't expect to be quickly called back into writing. Sure, I knew I would always have a writer's heart and I'd always dabble around with words. But, reasoning that the world has plenty of good authors (and no end to the mediocre), I planned to make my difference in the tangible world of mothers and babies.

And yet, as the bookcase testifies, the writer's calling has its stronghold in my soul. I can barricade myself with other pursuits; but like my friend, I have found that "God won't let me do anything else." As I cultivate new skills, knowledge, and interests—exploring the potential of new callings, to midwifery and other ministries—I have come to understand that in order to thrive, I must remain true to the calling God has already placed on my life, the talent He has already given. That's why, without abandoning my midwifery apprenticeship, I've added freelancing jobs and studies in journalism (plus a blog) back into my life, concurrently.

Do you know your calling, or would you like to discover it? Perhaps—just maybe—your bookcase already whispers it.