Hints of Failure Part 4

Part 4: Earthquakes and Turkey Soup

I went to see The Chariot when they stopped at Studio Seven in Seattle during their farewell tour in November. This was a momentous occasion for my husband and I. Our first date as an official "long distance" couple was a meet up at a The Chariot show several years ago. We've seen them about five times since. 

We mosh and thrash and scream, worshiping Jesus with the band. They jump off the stage onto our heads and hands. We pray with them and they invite us to eat with them after the show. We listen to their albums all year, eagerly anticipating our next joyous worship session together 

This show - the final show we'd share with them - was not like the others. 

More people attended this show than ever before. A beautiful sight.

As we waited and listened to the opening bands, I started imagining an earthquake and wondering what I'd do in the event one occurred in this crowded, stuffy place. Too many people, not enough doorways, I thought. But as soon as The Chariot began setting up on stage, my misgivings were forgotten.

---

Jeremiah and I spent Thanksgiving together, just us and the dogs. We cooked all the things we look forward to all year- a turkey, stuffing, rolls, mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes, green bean casserole, two pies, a cake - and ate as much as we could.

Needless to say, we had ample left overs.

The following day, we boiled the leftover turkey bones and made broth. With our broth, we made turkey soup. Again, we ate as much as we could.

We had ample left overs.

Our friend Kendal (who you read about in Part 1) is a culinary artist. I am not particularly fond of seafood, and the thought of eating anything besides fish makes me squirm. But when Kendal made seafood gumbo, complete with shrimp, clams, muscles, and octopus, I ate it up. And asked for seconds.

Being rendered essentially immobile by the breaks in his leg, Kendal has been reliant on others to cook meals for him; in particular, Jen. Though I know he is grateful for every bite (he has an unparalleled gift of gratitude), I also know it can be tiring to be the person stuck cooking and cleaning every day.

It was Jeremiah's idea to pack up our abundance of soup to The Keep, where Kendal and some other friends live. We had enough to feed all four friends who were home. And thankfully, they ate the chocolate cake we brought over too.

While they ate, we shared stories from our Thanksgivings. I found my mind wandering, taking note of the number of doorways and people in sight, again wondering what I'd do if there were an earthquake. My thoughts were jolted back to the present when Kendal began to catch us up on the state of his leg. He'd just gotten X-rays and a new cast, so we were eager to hear of his progress.

Turned out, there had been no progress.

Not slight progress. Not mediocre progress.

None.

Despite all the healing I could have sworn Jesus and I were giving, after a solid month of rest and immobility, there was no visible improvement to speak of. His leg was exactly the same.

I knew what I had to do.

---

Jeremiah is a musician. Most often, he plays the guitar.

For a year, he was the guitarist and vocalist for a band called Simon the Leper. We lived in The Yellow House with Simon the Leper's drummer, Jared Bugg. The band practiced in the basement of The Yellow House, and even recorded an EP there.

Simon the Leper broke up last spring. For nearly nine months, Jeremiah has been stuck playing guitar alone in our apartment, amp turned low as possible. As of November, Jeremiah was invited into two bands almost simultaneously. In one, he plays bass. In the other, guitar.

The bands have been progressing in parallel since their respective inceptions. Both began practicing the same week. Both named themselves during their third practice.

One of those bands, "A Friend," was formed by Jared Bugg. They practice in the basement of The Yellow House, where the drummer now lives. A Friend had their first show December 17. They played at Le Voyeur, a restaurant and bar in Olympia where Simon the Leper played countless times.

Le Voyeur is kind of a dive, though they have surprisingly delicious food and an excellent beer selection. We like the venue in part because the shows happen in back, and Le Voyeur patrons can choose to come watch rather than be bombarded with something they're not in to. Also, shows there are both all ages and free.

At least, every one of the dozens of times I've been there before to watch my husband and friends play a show, it's been free.

---

Thirty seconds into The Chariot's set, while I stood at center stage close enough to touch their vocalist, Josh, I had an anxiety attack. Overwhelmed, I tried to shove my way out of the pit but was unable to budge an inch in any direction. I turned to Jeremiah in a panic. His first instinct was to boost me onto the crowd so I could surf out. He was nearly trampled in the process, though. Instead, he shoved backward through the sea of thrashing kids and pulled me to a place I felt safe. 

From our safe place, we could hardly see what was happening on stage. We were separated from the worship we'd been craving, like wine-os with a new bottle and no corkscrew.  

We went to our car for a smoke, trying to tell ourselves we were still part of the show... We could hear   the band loud and clear anyway...

When we went back into the venue, I stood at the back of the crowd, well outside the mosh pit. Jeremiah made it to the front again, crowd surfing and thrashing to the end. 

Divine Dice

It's NaNoWriMo! That means significantly fewer blog posts this month for me. And slightly out of date posts as well. This one's about Halloween. I know, been there done that. But the story has little to do with the holiday, and is only getting more relevant as I ruminate on it. 

As a rule (I use the term loosely), I like to take anything people in my realm of influence have deemed secular, demonic, anti-christian, or any other label that's supposed to suggest I steer clear, and advance the Kingdom with it. 

Recently, my husband and I started playing a game called Magic: The Gathering. We particularly like to play at our favorite pub because inevitably, other Magic players light up at the sight of their favorite game being played in public. This a game for nerds and dweebs. People have been scorned and ridiculed throughout child and adulthood for playing this game. And it has a particularly unsavory reputation in the Christian clubs. Most players don't like to broadcast themselves outside their safe zones. We love drawing people out of hiding, engaging with them and watching their eyes light up because we are as weird as they are. And we're not afraid to show it. 

Harry Potter taught me about being a friend and the gift of service. Game of Thrones is teaching me about ruling (or about how not to rule) as a Queen in Heaven. I do Yoga, because I hear Dad speak more clearly when my body, mind, and breath are synchronized. Any time, any where, give me something the Church clubs have rebuked and I will find Jesus all over it. Because I can. Because He's all the time everywhere. Because I take joy in people and the things people find joy in. 

"...Dad told me I'd be drawing people into their identities.
Specifically, I'd be naming people "Healer..."'

OK so, Halloween. Obviously, I had to find Jesus in Halloween. So I dressed up as Professor Trelawney from Harry Potter to work my shift at the coffee bungalow. Once I got there, I set up two dice and a little sign offering "prophecies." Then, I let Dad speak. 

This is the second year I've dressed as a fortune teller for Halloween and given prophetic words. Dad seems to love speaking to people this way. Last year, we threw a party at our house. Some friends tended bar, and twenty or so other friends dressed fancy and enjoyed themselves. I set up a hookah and a tea pot in the lounge, and offered tea leaf readings. Then I got to prophecy identity over people.

I have never prophesied so much, so accurately, and been so eagerly received at any given time. Last year, there seemed to be a theme. Whether people saw ducks or unicorns, when I Googled the symbol meanings, Dad was talking about leadership, decision making, and transition.

This year, there was a theme as well. I asked anyone interested to roll the dice. I wrote down a list of numbers, 1 to 12, and meanings associated with them (see bottom of post for list). I told them the meanings of each dice individually, then combined the dice for a third number and meaning. Then, I let Dad weave the three numbers together for a prophetic word. 

Before we started, Dad told me I'd be drawing people into their identities. Specifically, I'd be naming people "Healer." Right off the bat, my first two customers rolled the dice. A couple, they both rolled a 1 and 6.

"One means unity and beginnings," I explained, not so slyly reading my number list. "Six is the number for weakness. Together, they're seven, which means resurrection and spiritual completeness." 

"Ok, that's kind of neat," the woman replied. Clearly, none of us saw much significance in the dice so far. 

"Let me focus on your drinks for a moment, and I'll have your prophecy ready." While making her mocha and his Americano, taking the next customer's order, preparing milks and cups as more people walked in, I asked Dad what he wanted this woman to hear. 

Living The Dream Part 2

Click here for Part 1

When I woke up from the school bus dream it was early and dark out, still a few hours before I needed to be awake. I fell asleep again and had a few sporadic dreams until I re-awoke to my alarm. The school bus and children running along telephone wires were as fresh in my mind as if I’d lived the experience rather than dreamed it. 

It is madness to wear ladies' straw' hats
and velvet hats to church..."

As I pulled my clothes on for the day and tidied my dreads, I asked Dad to interpret the dream for me. As quiet as I could commit my mind to be, I waited for a response. I waited and waited as I drifted through the menial tasks of the morning, until my mind wandered and I forgot I was listening. 

Instead, I started thinking about a conversation I had with my sister, Brittany. One of her teammates was sick with tonsillitis. “Go out and heal the sick,” Jesus says. And I wanted to heal this teammate. But she’d been left at the hotel the day before, in too much pain to watch her team play. I’d yet to see her. 

As I walked downstairs to meet my family, I was determined to find this girl and lay hands. With plenty of time to kill before the day’s games started, we ate slowly and played a story game until Brittany had to join her team for study hall. 

It wasn’t until my parents and I were about to leave the hotel that I recalled my determination to heal Brittany’s teammate. I marched quickly back to the lobby where Brittany was knee deep in Facebook while her gathered teammates worked on homework. “Hey!” I said, loudly enough to prompt Brittany to take off her headphones. “Where’s that girl with tonsillitis? Carmen, right?” I’d go to the room she’d been quarantined in, if I had to. 

“She’s right there,” Brittany replied with a gesture over her shoulder. Carmen sat on a giant beanbag with a blanket and a text book. Though she looked miserable, both she and my sister seemed amused by the interruption of their study session. 

“Do you want healed?” I asked Carmen as I walked toward her. 

“Yes!” She said, completely sick of being sick. Several girls glanced up, curious. But if they continued to watch, I didn’t notice.

“Great.” I sat down next to her, double checked that her throat was the location of her pain, then placed my hand on the right side of her neck. On a scale of 1-10, she said the pain was a 6. After a few minutes of prayer I asked if she felt any change in her pain level, but it remained a stubborn 6. 

I prayed again. “What do you feel?” I asked this time. 

“I feel really calm.”

 Calm. That could only be the Holy Spirit at work, so I prayed one more time. Once again, I asked what she felt and if the pain had changed. “Still a 6,” she said. “But I feel super calm.”

“Are you coming to the gym today?” She was. Certain that she was experiencing the peace of Dad’s presence, I decided to let Dad continue to love on her and leave more prayer for later in the day. Dad is a far better minister than I am. “Let yourself soak in that calm as long as possible,” I suggested. “I’ll check in with you and see how you’re feeling.”

Our team’s first game of the day was at noon. Again, I found myself in the bleachers surrounded by parents. Just as frustrated as yesterday by attitudes and conduct, I wanted to rant. I used to play volleyball until I hurt my knee, I imagined my rant beginning. They do not need your negative energy. The moment this thought crossed my mind, Dad took my back to my dream. 

I used to do this until I hurt my knee, my dream self had claimed. Instantly, Dad interpreted the dream for my spirit. I couldn’t rationally understand all I suddenly knew, but two solid details were sure. First, the school bus dream was portraying this moment. I’m in my dream, I kept thinking. Second, I couldn’t rant at anyone. I’d already seen the results, and they were no good. 

Living The Dream Part 1

One of my younger sisters, Brittany, played in a volleyball tournament over the weekend. She plays for Spokane Falls Community College. By the community college level, skills are honed and the game is fast paced. Though not necessarily more competitive than high school matches, certainly less painful to watch. 

"...The moment a mistake is made, it must be forgotten.
It’s an exercise of constant forgiveness and repentance."

Less painful, but not entirely painless. I’m a volleyball player as well. After playing through three years of college, two knee injuries, a few ankle injuries, and all the drama that comes along with a group of 12 women in close confines for any length of time, I still love the game. 

Watching others play is like a cat scratch on a sunburn for me. As a player, watching from the bench can be excruciating. However, watching from the bleachers surrounded by parents is a new torture I’m hoping I don’t have to experience enough to get used to. 

On the bench, I’d watch my teammates successes and feel they were mine. I’d watch their failures, and take personal responsibility to resolve them. If my outside hitter is getting blocked, I’d look at what the other team was doing and how my teammate (or myself, should I get subbed in) could hit around them. If the other team’s middle has three kills in a row, I’d look at my defense and plot ways for them to work in unity with my blockers to shut her down. 

As a player, the moment a mistake is made, it must be forgotten. It’s an exercise of constant forgiveness and repentance. When a mistake latches on to a player’s memory, it will begin chipping away at their confidence until they’re too crippled to play. Regardless of physical skill, volleyball is a mental game. The most successful players are those capable remaining focused and present; of forgiving their teammates and themselves instantly, and changing their mind’s desire to dwell on past and future mistakes. 

From Corpse to Bride Part 2

The Rise 

I don't want to encourage a bunch of daydreamers to avoid living and hide in fantasy worlds. That's not the point of this pair of posts.

I want to release new identity over you. If you are reading this, it is because you are a prophet, a healer, an artist, and, if you'll receive the Kingdom that is your inheritance, a king/queen.

I want to see our imaginations restored and healed. I want to stop seeing our imaginations brushed aside  as fanciful merriment by our teachers and leaders, and start seeing it taught as a vital skill.

I want to tell you a story. It's a fun story about a dear friend. It's packed full of prophetic imagery. I tried to interpret it for those reading and for myself, but I'm not satisfied with my attempt (although I pretty much left it down there if you want to read it). So, I'm hoping if there's imagery to interpret, we can do it together. Otherwise, we can simply experience the power of testimony that demonstrates the force of imagination made reality.

---

Kendal is one of my dearest friends. He is an Olympian, through and through. Raised in the wild and beautiful Capitol Forest, he relishes our drab, ever-rainy environment. When the rainy season begins and the heat of summer fades, his burden lightens and a smile is never far from his face. Grey skies and the heady smell of damp earth have much the same affect on him that sun and pina coladas on a Hawaiian beach would have on most. 

Few can match Kendal’s meticulous, diligent approach to his work and his art. It’s not perfection he seeks with his methods. And though rarely disappointed with the outcome of his efforts, be they cocktails or knit caps, the finished products are not his greatest joy. 

His grandmother passed on great wisdom to him early in life when, as the oldest child of nine, he was tasked with maintaining the dinner dishes every day. “You can worship God anywhere, doing anything,” she told him. “Even while doing dishes.” Taking the wisdom to the depths of his heart, he learned to savor labor with the passion of King David stripped to skivvies and dancing in the streets before God. 

He’s quite weird. When we first began working together, I found my patience tested. I hadn’t heard his grandmother’s wisdom yet, and wouldn’t likely have brought it anywhere near my heart if I had. It’s a finished product I like: a mopped floor, opposed to mopping. A cooked meal, opposed to cooking. Nearly four years in Kendal’s presence has rubbed off on me though. While his patience is that of a giant redwood, mine has at least increased from squirrel to some sort of large bird. 

Kendal’s green Volkswagen is a testament to his redwood nature. He’s had the little beast since he was sixteen, and after five years of loving labor he finally took it to a mechanic. Even at the mechanic’s experienced hand, it took several months to get the car running reliably. 

Kendal has driven joyfully and mischievously ever since. He’s learned the car inside and out - how to smoothly shift into first, which parallel spaces he can crank into, and exactly how far off asphalt he can venture. 

It was dark, in the earliest part of a late August morning. His vision was limited just enough that he didn't see the little yearling dear heaped pitifully in the middle of the road until it was suddenly directly in front of him. Knowing his car, though, he didn't flinch.

After driving directly over the deer, well clear of causing further harm, he eased to a stop and turned around. Dying or dead he couldn’t tell. Concerned and curious, he walked up to the dear and checked for vitals. It was breathing still, but the breaths were shallow and labored. Carefully, he eased the creature to the side of the road and sat next to it. Cradling its head in his lap, he stoked its neck until it was calm. Together, they waited. 

Roller Coaster Dream

"'I'm afriad the ride will break,' I replied. The moment I
said it, I knew it was a fear as flimsy as injury or death..."
Photo by Kaylin Roback

I had a dream at end of July, just before I went to Southern California to visit a friend. We were planning on visiting Six Flags when we got there, so I'm sure that had something to do with the dream's content. I'm terrified of getting on roller coasters. The process of waiting in line is agonizing; I spend the entire time trying to calm myself down from an anxiety attack without drawing other ride goers' attention to myself. I freaking love riding them, though. Once I'm on and that first hill is behind me, I'm happy as a clam.

The dream opened with me in line behind a sea of blurry strangers, waiting to get on a roller coaster. I consciously noted the intensity of the dream's physical effects - the same gut flipping, lung collapsing anxiety I experience in the natural coursed through my body. I've felt such effects momentarily while dreaming, usually just before a fall wakes me up. This was different, though. I wasn't waking up, the dream had just started.

I took deep slow breaths. Tried to think about Jesus. Contemplated abandoning the line and skipping the ride. I couldn't move my legs for the fear that gripped me. Memory of roller coasters I've ridden in the past came streaming to me, as though a friend were showing home videos. I could almost feel the exhilarated joy as I stepped off each coaster. Every time, I wanted to go again. I was never disappointed I'd stuck it out and given the ride a go.

Physical anxiety brought me back into the present state of the dream, where I waited to board the coaster at hand. I'd been just as afraid and tempted to bail before every coaster before. Determined to experience the relief and thrill of the ride's end, I said aloud "I will get on the ride."

My mind was unwaveringly set. The thought of turning around no longer had any power. My veins pumped adrenaline throughout my body, I still felt terrified. Something, however, had changed. Something at the same time tangible and completely abstract.

A voice from somewhere outside myself, outside the ride's line, asked "What are you afraid of?"

I racked my mind. The immediate, and only fears I could think of were being hurt or killed. I brushed them aside like flys. I'll be healed or raised. And as long as the ride functions properly, neither were very possible. "I'm afraid the ride will break," I replied. The moment I said it, I knew it was a fear as flimsy as injury or death.

I began to discuss with myself and the voice whether my statement was true. Was I was actually afraid of the ride breaking? "I am a child of God," I concluded. "The ride will not break."

During the dream, this seemed a logical conclusion to a logical thought process. I think what essentially took me there was the realization that, if I trust my Dad, no fear except the fear of God himself was logical. And he wasn't causing my current terror. This wasn't "fear of God." This was an attack, rooted in a tiny chink in my armor created not by my mistrust of God, but by my unrealized and undeclared trust in Him. Once I realized I in fact trust my Dad, I also realized that my fear was lie.

Just as Jesus quieted the storm, my turning stomach immediately quieted. Calm washed over me. My body was relieved - every tensed muscle relaxed, the breath I held was released. The only thing left to do was get on the ride.

I am thoroughly sick of writing, thinking, and dreaming about my knee (See New Roads Part 1, and New Roads Part 2 if you don't know what I'm talking about). One of the reasons I haven't written in a while is every idea I've had seems to revolve around its damage. And I've determined that "No. No I will not write any more about my knee. Until its whole and I can write about the wonderful tingleys that occurred when it was healed."

Seems that Dad isn't done with the conversation, though. And I'm aching to write something that stirs up my spirit. I didn't realize the dream had anything to do with my stubborn, deaf knee, until  just as I was stepping up to my seat, I woke myself up saying "This is how you need to approach healing your knee!"

When I woke up, saying that aloud, it made perfect sense. I fell back asleep certain I'd had quite the epiphany.

This was a month ago. My knee is still damaged. Even in my dreams, I'm hindered by it (talk about distorted self image). I've been meditating and Dad's been speaking on the subject ever since, though. Stay tuned for Part 2, where I'll explore what the frack "This is how you need to approach healing your knee!" means, anyway.

New Roads Part 2

Familiar Spirits

[For an audio version of this post, play the video at the bottom of the page.]

When I wrote Part 1, Dad had been speaking to me about "familiar spirits." I didn't realize that's what we'd been conversing about until recently. The term "familiar spirits" isn't mine, it's one I've heard used by folks who've spoken words about the concept that resonated with me. Whenever I use the term though, it feels a little foreign and religious. I don't like it, but I don't have anything better just yet.

I'm going to discuss a little of my experiences over the past couple weeks recognizing and addressing familiar spirits related to my knee. I'm not going to go into real extensive detail over the theology behind the concept because I think its been covered very well by others.

One great source for theology on the concept is The Company of Burning Hearts, a team in Wales, UK founded by Justin and Rachel Abraham. They've got a free podcast; if you haven't downloaded it I recommend it. Not because I agree with everything their speakers say, but because every time I listen, they're speaking about something ridiculously relevant in my current conversations with Dad.

The Podcast below, "Episode 30 - Familiar Spirits," is Ian Clayton speaking on June 25th 2011. I found it last week, after asking Dad for something to listen to while trying to get my knee healed. The title didn't catch my eye, because I wasn't looking to learn about familiar spirits. Something about the description engaged me, though, so I hit play.

A reference to the Lone Ranger and Tonto early in the podcast confirmed I was on the right track; it was the third unsolicited such reference I'd encountered in a day or two. If you're giving it a go, Ian gets good and poignant at about 5:50. I read American Gods by Neil Gaiman recently, and Ian hits on exactly the message I received from that book.



As I listened, I began to recognize the moods I've been experiencing since injuring my knee were very much what Ian was describing. A literal dialogue in my mind speaking lies directly aimed at my identity and relationship with Dad. Beyond that, I began to recognize that I hadn't heard that dialogue in a very long time, but I had heard it before - word for word - when I last tore my ACL. Deja vu.

While I laid hands on my knee, the image of a heavy wooden door came to mind and I spoke the words "I close the door this injury opened." I then invited Holy Spirit into my knee via a door I built just for Her. I'm still weeding out familiar spirits, but they're getting less and less frequent (at least in regards to my knee).

Seems like in the moment I first injured my knee years ago, a door was created by a brushfire of fear, fueled by Fword-inducing pain. That door has been open until now. When it was open, I'd take authority and clean house of familiar spirits, only to have more walk right in. Now, they leave and have no entrance through which to return with friends.

That's my best effort at describing this thing that's happening, at least.

This time, when I injured my knee, I was quite calm in comparison. I knew exactly what had been done. I didn't cry or curse. Immediately, my mind went to Jesus and I began releasing healing. The moment I hit the ground, I rebuked the pain. My friend Meghan sat by me and laid hands, too. What an awesome place to get healed and demonstrate Dad's presence, I thought.

I don't want to say I wasn't healed, or I'm not healed. I firmly believe, in fact, that I am healed.

The evidence remains, though, that my knee is quite swollen, often painful, and limited to a restricted range of motion.

New Roads 1.75 (Re-Release)

Blackberries 

I'm re-releasing this post with a reading by yours truly. I'm hoping to engage with anyone who hates reading, which up till now hasn't been the case. I don't know why the finalized version of the video decided to chop off my forehead, I'll have to work on that for future releases. Featured music is "All Men" by Simon The Leper from the You Are OK E.P. Find it at http://simontheleper.bandcamp.com.

I'm writing this dystopic fiction story novel thing. It's called Extinguishment. Or Fire Starter. Or neither of those. I started writing it last November for National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo) and have been fiddling with it ever since. 

A detail I've been really trying to grasp is one of the main settings: Olympia, after being deserted and completely unoccupied for at least 200 years. My characters have moved in, they're setting up camp, they're galavanting through the ruins and finding all kinds of cool crap. 

So what do they see? Smell? Stub their toes on? 

I've imagined they'd find an ample supply of coffee, a printing press, some houses still standing, old cars, heaps and heaps of plastic water bottles. Tumwater Falls is the only source of potable water left in North America; communities have been established at The Falls, and in the train tunnel downtown. 

Plant life has been a major factor in how I picture this new Olympia. Since November, I figured the whole place has been completely overtaken by blackberries. With no natural predator and no people to tame the bushes, it seemed logical. 

The ground, except where roads were paved, is completely overgrown with the thorny bushes, greatly restricting already restricted travel. Not to mention the spattering of hybrid blackberry bushes whose genetic makeup fused with nano-bots and evolved highly lethal, shooting thorns. So basically, you travel the paved roads, or don't travel. 

 As I mentioned in Part 1, I had a vision about blackberries. These are those blackberries. 

I sat in the living room in our new apartment with my knee elevated, trying to ignore the boxes and piles of random crap that needed unpacked. With no internet or television to distract me, I opened my notebook and started writing. Almost immediately, I hit a wall in the story that required a more firm understanding of the setting. Something told me the current blackberry situation wasn't going to cut it. 

With a sigh, I said "Dad, what does this Olympia look like?" I started to imagine a tropical climate (I've been learning about climate change). Not only have the pines been replaced with palms, a natural enemy to blackberries has been introduced. The tropical plants, both natural and hybrid nano-bot beasts, grow in such abundance the blackberries are almost completely choked out. 

Almost. They did find a means of survival. 

The asphalt used to pave our roads has rendered the soil beneath toxic. None of the new tropical plants can grow where asphalt was laid. So, where we now have roads, there are rivers of painful and lethal blackberries. 

Suddenly I realized there are no roads in my story. Likely, no one in my story even knows what roads are. They're creating new roads out of necessity, and don't even realize it. 

I started writing again with vigor. It wasn't until a few days later, when I wrote Part 1, that I realized God had given me this vision. Here I was, thinking I tapped into my own vast imagination. If you'll remember with me, though, I asked Dad a question. He's faithful about answering questions. 

Cool. SO. Not only did this imagery give me context for my story, it also gave me context for the shift me and my fellows are experiencing. 

We're stepping into a new climate, and engaging relationally with Dad in ways that we haven't been taught. The roads that got us here won't get us much further. We're going to need to not only take new roads, but take paths that won't exist until we travel them. 

There's a story in acts 10. A friend I call Wee Todd brought this story to my attention while praying with a group of awesome folks at an explosive Memorial Day BBQ (which I'll need to tell you about in the next post.) I'd never heard this story, but Dad flipped my Bible open to it a few days ago (another story I'll need to tell you about). 

New Roads Part 1.75

Blackberries 

I'm writing this dystopic fiction story novel thing. It's called Extinguishment. Or Fire Starter. Or neither of those. I started writing it last November for National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo) and have been fiddling with it ever since. 

A detail I've been really trying to grasp is one of the main settings: Olympia, after being deserted and completely unoccupied for at least 200 years. My characters have moved in, they're setting up camp, they're galavanting through the ruins and finding all kinds of cool crap. 

So what do they see? Smell? Stub their toes on? 

I've imagined they'd find an ample supply of coffee, a printing press, some houses still standing, old cars, heaps and heaps of plastic water bottles. Tumwater Falls is the only source of potable water left in North America; communities have been established at The Falls, and in the train tunnel downtown. 

Plant life has been a major factor in how I picture this new Olympia. Since November, I figured the whole place has been completely overtaken by blackberries. With no natural predator and no people to tame the bushes, it seemed logical. 

The ground, except where roads were paved, is completely overgrown with the thorny bushes, greatly restricting already restricted travel. Not to mention the spattering of hybrid blackberry bushes whose genetic makeup fused with nano-bots and evolved highly lethal, shooting thorns. So basically, you travel the paved roads, or don't travel. 

 As I mentioned in Part 1, I had a vision about blackberries. These are those blackberries. 

I sat in the living room in our new apartment with my knee elevated, trying to ignore the boxes and piles of random crap that needed unpacked. With no internet or television to distract me, I opened my notebook and started writing. Almost immediately, I hit a wall in the story that required a more firm understanding of the setting. Something told me the current blackberry situation wasn't going to cut it. 

With a sigh, I said "Dad, what does this Olympia look like?" I started to imagine a tropical climate (I've been learning about climate change). Not only have the pines been replaced with palms, a natural enemy to blackberries has been introduced. The tropical plants, both natural and hybrid nano-bot beasts, grow in such abundance the blackberries are almost completely choked out. 

Almost. They did find a means of survival. 

The asphalt used to pave our roads has rendered the soil beneath toxic. None of the new tropical plants can grow where asphalt was laid. So, where we now have roads, there are rivers of painful and lethal blackberries. 

Suddenly I realized there are no roads in my story. Likely, no one in my story even knows what roads are. They're creating new roads out of necessity, and don't even realize it. 

I started writing again with vigor. It wasn't until a few days later, when I wrote Part 1, that I realized God had given me this vision. Here I was, thinking I tapped into my own vast imagination. If you'll remember with me, though, I asked Dad a question. He's faithful about answering questions. 

Cool. SO. Not only did this imagery give me context for my story, it also gave me context for the shift me and my fellows are experiencing. 

We're stepping into a new climate, and engaging relationally with Dad in ways that we haven't been taught. The roads that got us here won't get us much further. We're going to need to not only take new roads, but take paths that won't exist until we travel them. 

There's a story in acts 10. A friend I call Wee Todd brought this story to my attention while praying with a group of awesome folks at an explosive Memorial Day BBQ (which I'll need to tell you about in the next post.) I'd never heard this story, but Dad flipped my Bible open to it a few days ago (another story I'll need to tell you about). 

Hush, Listen, Obey

Your personalized health plan Part 1

"You believe God heals, right?"
"Yes. Of course. Absolutely."
"Yet you're still sick."

I was imagining having this conversation with someone in a church before laying hands on them a few days ago. In my imagination, I was the one asking the questions. But the moment the conversation ended, I realized that I was sick one.

Despite every effort, I spent my days off this week inconsolably ill and apparently un-healed.

"You're still sick."

"Apparently... What now?"

Appearances aren't always what they seem. Sometimes, when it appears we're not getting healed and God isn't responding, it's because He's inviting us into some good quality alone time with Him.

Now, seek God's voice. Not healing, or a Bible verse, or stuff to do.

Listen. 

Stop what you're doing, tell yourself to hush, stop asking questions, and see what you hear. 

Sometimes our efforts to get healed...

Make better doors than windows.

Keep in mind, our entire being is an antenna designed to tune in to God's frequency. It's not always our ears that do the hearing.

Then, do as directed. Or for you, maybe it's as you imagined. Or as you feel compelled.

God wants you healed. He's already made it so. He's not preventing it. Pray. Keep praying and don't stop. But while you're at it hush, listen, and obey. It's a plan with such potential to be simple.

Simplicity often comes in retrospect, though. Let me tell you, that conversation I nonchalantly posted up top seriously screwed with me.

A lifetime has lead up to that conversation; I'll start a few years back to bring you up to speed.

By age 19, I'd seen one man I prayed for daily pass away. The death he experienced, which took three months of unexplained hospitalization, I would not wish on anyone or any family. I'd spent ten years of daily prayer seeking the healing of that man's wife. She still has Multiple Sclerosis, it's still getting worse.


I tore my ACL and feared I'd lost my opportunity to play volleyball at another college.

So mid-prayer one day, I abruptly told God to fuck off. That I was never praying for anyone's healing again.

---
Part 2 will be posted later this evening. Thanks for lending me your eyes and hearts. Comments welcome!

Participation Part 1 - From busted to better than Ever

I went to Reality, a church place in downtown Olympia, last Sunday. The experience gave me renewed perspective on two stories I'll share, and provided opportunity to co-labor with Papa for healing.

I don't typically go to places that call themselves church. Church is a who, not a what or a where. But this was an exception; an act of obedience to a series of undeniable words from Papa, which I will compile and share in part two.

The sermon, given by Paul Jones, an elder at Reality, was a kickoff to Advent (no surprise there). Titled "King of Faithfulness," the sermon launched from Psalm 98 and Paul discussed the cycle of pain, patience, and promise that humanity has experienced from Genesis on.

Basically, humanity experiences pain, then must patiently endure until God makes a promise and the pain ends (That's a extreme paraphrase, folks. The full sermon is available for a listen, if you need more detail and accuracy). That cycle is illustrated throughout the Old Testament, and we can see it in the world today.

Vocalist and Drummer participating with audience to sing
"The Fly" Dec 1 at Le Voyeur. Photo by Winter Rain X

So what breaks that cycle? According to Paul: participation.

Now we're getting somewhere.

Paul, using Psalm 98 as a reference, explains the cycle is broken because God participates. "He has remembered his love and his faithfulness," says verse three.

"If you're an underliner, take out your pen and underline 'remember.' If you take one thing from tonight, take this: God remembers," said Paul. "Remember" in this case doesn't indicate that God forgot, and has suddenly recalled his love and faithfulness. Rather, it indicates action; to remember is to act upon his promises. In other words, God participates. God is participating in our lives.

The Unhinged Servant - Part 1

Part 1: Self Interest 

Service is a gift directly from Papa (see Romans 12). Service is also an industry.

A fucked up, demon ridden industry that I thank Pops daily (now that I've had time to reflect on the situation) for the opportunity to infiltrate and destroy from the inside.

I am uncomfortable being paid to serve. I am uncomfortable being expected to serve. I'd really much rather spend my time doing pretty much anything else.

I write this as a servant of Papa God. A begrudging servant, at best. A cog in the machine that is the service industry. A burnt out cog in need of a spit polish.

I write this for the encouragement of my fellow servants, as well as my own encouragement. And whether you know it or not, if you're reading this you carry the gift of service (so this is for you, too).

I pledge my hands to larger service,
and Heavenly Doughnuts. 

About three years ago, I was discovering that Papa God is not a collection of bullshit fantasy fiction wrapped and bound in the pages of a book called Bible. Rather, as He's continued to reveal Himself to me, He's a loving, nurturing, living badass who heals, raises the dead, multiplies food, teleports people, and otherwise defies the laws of physics we tend to submit ourselves to. And those bullshit stories, well they keep ringing true. I see them happen with my own eyes.

With this new perspective, and after watching the documentary Finger of God several times, I decided I  seriously wanted to go to Africa and learn with Heidi and Roland Baker at Iris Ministries. I diligently perused the Iris Ministries website, found an application for their ministry school, and set to filling it out.

The application included a list of spiritual gifts, with a prompt to check off all that apply. I'd never seen such a list, and had no idea if I was worthy to check off any. Sure, I want the gift of healing, of prophesy, leadership, miracles (here's a useful link if you're unfamiliar with the gifts I'm talking about). Those are awesome. Frack yes.

But can I actually do these things? I asked Papa. And he nudged me to check off a few. Service was one. I chose not to check it.

Kidney Roast Part 2: The Process

In-between laying hands on Jessie's kidneys, and writing "Kidney Roast Part 1," Papa and I did a lot of talking. I didn't realize just how much talking until I started writing Part 1, and the post grew far, far too long. If you haven't read Part 1, I recommend doing so before reading this post, for this will make little sense out of context.

Let's jump in!

One issue Papa and I talked about was why I wanted to write and share Jessie's story in the first place. Writing is a vital means of communication between Papa and I. As I wrote Part 1, God pointed out that if the current model of church, involving a building, programs, etc., isn't something I'm willing to embrace, I need an alternative.

I shared Jessie's story not only because she felt the tangible presence of God through me, but because I felt Him through her too. We shared the experience. "Kidney Roast Part 1" isn't just Jessie's story, but mine also. Shared experience is pivotal in my effort to illustrate an alternative to the church model I've rejected. 

Another aspect of my conversation with Papa revolved around personal growth, and further expounds upon the necessity of shared experience.

When I pray to heal people and ask what they feel, heat is the most common response. Jessie is the first person I've been able to confidently discuss the nature of that heat with. I  didn't know the relevance until I started perusing a friend's blog, Mobile Intensive Prayer Unit. Two posts in particular, "The Summer of my Discontent," and "ICU Being Healed," prompted me to email him and also taught me about this heat everyone was mentioning.

  

From ashes shall the phoenix rise.
From spro' and foam shall it be drawn.

When Kendal and I laid hands on Jessie the first time, I didn't know she'd felt any heat because I didn't ask. When customers came in, we abandoned our healing efforts. The conversation with her afterward went something like:

          How do you feel? 

          So much better, but still some pain. 

          Ok great! 

Round two, I'd had time to learn from our first attempt. I asked how she felt as we prayed, and after each interruption in our prayer I returned directly back to the task at hand. When I finally learned about the heat Jessie had been feeling, it still wasn't because I'd asked her about it. I felt heat in my own hands, and mentioned it without thinking.

 I realized afterward that I'd had a specific question on my heart, are you feeling any heat?, all along. But I wasn't confident enough to ask such a specific question, so I settled with how do you feel? 

Though on accident, I'd opened up conversation. This leads me to another point in my chat with Papa. Shared experience, I'll say, is the seed of community. Open communication, then, is the soil in which community flourishes.

Cupcakes and beer: an unexpected, Spirit-filled Communion.

Alberto and Miah, giving the mash a whirl.

Last week, Jeremiah (Miah) and I found ourselves in a cupcake bakery downtown Olympia, helping a friend brew beer. What a communion it turned out to be.

We helped our friend, Alberto, sanitize and clean his supplies, peel labels off old beer bottles (which we've been "helping" him collect for a few weeks), and lent a hand whenever the brewing process required lifting and pouring. We learned more than our heads could contain. Alberto has been a home brewer for seven years, and has a beautiful understanding of each ingredients' purpose in his recipes.

Once the initial work was done, we had to wait for our 8 gallon pot of future beer to reach boiling temperature. We waited, and waited some more. And it still wasn't ready.

Generally I hate waiting. But when communion strikes, waiting becomes the best part.

Miah and I brought beer. Alberto and his girlfriend brought pizza and left-over cupcakes (SO many leftover cupcakes). The couple who lives above the bakery brought Catch Phrase and a delicious, traditional Russian cocktail. We broke bread and passed a good hour or two in fellowship.

Fleshbook Weekly

I've had a startling and liberating realization recently: Facebook is the closest thing to organized church that I regularly "attend." For this reason, I've decided that I will share an insight my Facebook friends have led me to each week. The series shall be titled "Fleshbook Weekly." (If "Fleshbook" makes you say huh? here is something sort of like an answer.)

I participate in enough spirit-filled groups and follow the updates of enough spirit-filled folks, that any time I need an easy drink of milk, I can log in and find someone whose got one poured and chilling for me. Yesterday, a post in The Spirit World*, a group that consistently and intensively discusses off-the-wall topics like translocation and levitation, provided a link to the podcast below. 

Talk about milk. Ian Clayton, speaking from the Courts and Government Conference 2012 in Wales, hit on just about every key word Papa has spoken to me about in the past month. Divine rest, and praying into violent, threatening weather systems, have been on my mind a lot. "Rest means total tranquility in the midst of chaos," Clayton says."...Jesus had dominion over weather because he was functioning out of rest." He connects the two concepts as though they were never separate.

 "Everything must come out of rest. If it's done out of striving, and out of the work of your hands, then it will fall. Because what you do is finite. What He does is infinite." Bam. Fresh perspective, new insight, writing material, and a completely refreshed and rested mind. And I got it all while practicing yoga in my room.

Glowing bladders and fiery words from God

Thursday, some things went down. 
Unplanned. 
Undesired. 
Completely awesome and I can't wait for it to happen again. 

Jeremiah's band, Simon The Leper, had practice Thursday afternoon at The Yellow House. This means that our friends Winter and Esa (STL's bassist) came over. While the band shook the walls of our basement, Winter and I had a chat. 

By "chat" I mean, a thought provoking and heart felt conversation. We spent some time catching up, it's been a good week or so since our last chat. But for the most part we shared struggles we've been facing and spoke truth into those struggles. 

Some issues I noticed we and our male counterparts shared (which I will describe brief and vague because it's not the enemy I care to focus on in this post): unexplained bouts of anger, random spirals into despair, intense moments of self-doubt, and barrages of the poverty spirit. 

"We are a piece God uses in His plan. God is not a
piece we use in our plan." - Winter Rain

Winter has also been dealing with a bladder infection since April. It is now, I'd like to point out, September. She and Esa are battling some demonic strongholds in and around their house, which are leaving physical marks like cuts and bruises. Jeremiah and I have established Gates at our house, with the purpose of allowing the spirits of God and Man to pass, but blocking anything else. Interestingly, Winter had to fight with herself to come over; couldn't convince herself to get out of her car and cross our street until Jeremiah walked up and said hello. 

We talked for probably a long time, but it was one of those God-filled conversation that don't exist in time, so I completely lost track of the clock's existence. By the end of the conversation, Esa had joined and we'd determined the issues at hand were to be conquered. Jesus has conquered them already, that we knew. But it was time we step into our place of victory next to Him and conquer them too. 

We decided to pray. We discussed specific areas we wanted to pray into. Depression was a big one for all of us, so we wanted to be sure and speak Joy. We also wanted to get Winter healed. We've laid hands on her a three or four times, and though we feel pretty good afterward, the infection has persisted. As of the past week, after her third round of antibiotics, it was intensifying drastically. Gates needed established at their house, as well. Why we hadn't done that yet? Frack if we know. 

Jeremiah walked into the living room just as we were about to launch in. Our initial response was to lay out the game plan for him, but I hesitated. "What if we don't tell you and you pray according to how your led?" I asked. My tone was humorous, in the way we try to cover up honesty with joke in an attempt to avoid looking foolish (or is that just me?). "Are you down to pray prophetically?"