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. 

Hints of Failure Part 3.5

If you haven't read them yet, catch on up with Part 1, Part 2, and Part 3.

Part 3.5: The Knees Continued

On the second day of the tournament, I watched my sister's team win another game. While them play, stepping periodically into the spirit to make the blanket of clouds recede, I noticed five or six girls with knee braces either playing, warming up, or watching. I reflected on my own knee injuries. I thought about the first time my friends and I laid hands and witnessed healing - an ACL.

I want to heal every knee I touch, I thought. 

Then you’d better start touching knees, Dad replied. 

Just then, as if cued by a script I wasn't given, a girl entered the gym on crutches witha familiar looking brace on her knee. She wore the colors of Blue Mountain Community College - a team well favored to win the tournament (and did, in fact, go on to do so).

Blue Mountain was cheering for Spokane from the sidelines, shouting in support of Eastern WA. The girl on crutches sat down several rows in front of me, surrounded by a boy and friends and parents. You'd better start touching knees...

After Brittany’s team won, and before I said my goodbyes, I pulled Brittany aside. “Let’s go lay hands on that girl with the crutches,” I said. 

“That is the coach of Blue Mountain’s daughter,” she said. Apparently this was reason to shy away from appearing crazy in front of her. 

“Do you know if she tore he ACL?” 

“Yeah, she did. A week ago. And she’s still on crutches. Isn’t that weird?”

“Did your doctor give you crutches?”

“No, he told me not to baby it.” We laughed, and I made my way to the girl on crutches. By now, Blue Mountain was on their own court warming up. The girl was standing near the bleachers, bearing no weight on her left, braced leg, still surrounded by a gaggle of people. 

I put my hand on her should to get her attention and said hello, trying to look friendly. “What happened to your knee?” I asked. 

She smiled, trying to act like she knew me, because I was acting like I knew her. “Tore more ACL right in half,” she said.

“So do you play for Blue Mountain?”

She didn’t, she explained, but helps her dad. She tore her ACL hitting with the team during practice. While we talked, none of the surrounding gaggle paid us any attention. They turned to each other and let the girl on crutches talk with this other girl no one knew. 

“We don’t know each other,” I said brightly. For a moment, relief replaced the girl’s well-masked confusion. The confusion returned quickly, though, when she realized that didn’t explain why we were talking.  “I’m Kaylani, I played for your assistant coach in high school. My sister plays for Spokane. I actually need practice healing knees, oddly enough. My sister tore her ACL too, and I’ve done damage to my own. Do you want some healing?”

Hints of Failure Part 2

Part 2: The Dreams 

Halloween was a day of breakthrough. November has been a month riding that breakthrough's wave. These dreams have been teaching and influencing me throughout the ride; I've been reminded and re-taught about them daily.

---

Dream 1

I was part of a group of ragged looking friends, walking through an abandoned city not unlike Olympia. We walked to the edge of the city and beyond, to an empty field surrounded by a sagging, dilapidated fence. We climbed the fence, and I noticed a single wire strung across the top. I explained to the others in my group that in days past, a painful force called electricity flowed through this wire, preventing animals from climbing over by shocking them.

When we crossed over the fence, the world changed. From outside the fence, an empty field. From inside, the same field. Empty, but for a single gnarled peach tree overladen with ripe fruit. We walked cautiously across the field toward the tree. The weight of the peaches bowed the tree’s branches toward the earth. The fruit was beautiful; oranges and pinks intensified against the stark, drab landscape and dull sky. 

I want to eat one of those peaches. The thought struck me before I had a chance to question it. Suddenly, I knew only one thing about myself and the world around me. I knew I was going to eat a peach. 

My group stopped to stare at the tree with me. As though we shared the same sudden onslaught of knowledge, we lurched toward the tree together. While the others made for the tree itself and climbed into its branches in pursuit of their treasure, I found a branch so heavy with fruit it had cracked and looked close to breaking. I gave it a tug, and it came crashing down. 

The peaches, which had looked so perfect from just a short distance away, were mostly all over-ripe and decaying. A sharp smell hung heavy in the air - fermenting fruit piled at the base of the tree. 

I was alone now. Just me and my peaches. I scanned my peach cornucopia for an unblemished fruit. There were dozens and dozens more to choose from; I felt sure the odds were in my favor. The moment my eyes locked onto a pristine peach larger than my two fists combined, I heard footsteps behind me. 

I turned around disappointed, expecting to see one of the friends I’d come with. I wanted this peach to myself. Desperately, I didn’t want to share it. 

Photo from Scientific American

Instead of my friend, I found myself face to face with a rhinoceros. “Give me your lunch money, kid” he seemed to say, large black eyes and menacing horn only inches from my face. I could feel the rhino’s breath mussing up my hair, stinging my eyes. 

Frozen, I knew I had only one chance to respond without getting trampled. The rhino stamped his foot, losing patience. Before I decided what to do, I found myself bowing slightly and opening my arms toward the fallen branch. Where I’d felt only selfish desire to consume peaches moments before, I now felt the warmth of gracious welcoming. 

“Please, eat all you like. There is plenty,” I told the rhino. He exhaled, nodded his head, and stepped forward. I remained still until he rifled through the leaves and took his first bite. Unbiased, the rhino ate the peaches whether rotting or damaged. I plucked up the prized, perfect peach I found before and bit in. Juice sloshed down my chin and arms; relief and calm washed over me. Not only was the rhino not going to kill me, something told me he’d protect me from here on out.


**edit: It was brought to my attention I had this dream Oct 29, and shared it the 30th, on a Facebook page called Dream & Vision Interpretation. I had totally forgotten. If you can, check the page out. It's great. Here's what I shared there (I'd also forgotten about the first part of the dream!):

I had a dream... long story short, two images stuck I'd like to throw at you for some feedback:

1) A weather map on TV of the Pacific North West, being described by the weather lady. The map was covered in white swirling storm systems. Solid white, unmoving portions of the map indicated avalanche warnings. Areas with high likelihood of the most severe avalanche were shaded deep blue. Those areas included Olympia, up through Tacoma, and over to Leavenworth. 

2) In a group of four or five people my age, exploring an abandoned city. We hopped a fence and found a peach tree. Large, very ripe peaches, though many were bruised and we couldn't eat them. Just as I though, what could go wrong, a huge rhinoceros walks up to me. I felt like he was threatening to steal my lunch money or beat me up. So I said, have all the peaches you want, and that seemed to please him. We all ate together. 

---

Dream 2 

I found myself a member of my sister Brittany’s volleyball team. We sat gathered on couches in the team room, facing my sister’s coach. In a corner behind Coach, my dad stood watching silently. 

“This is not a democracy,” I heard Coach saying. “My decision aren’t up for debate. If you have a problem with that, there’s the door.”

I had a problem with that. For a few seconds I hesitated, hoping I wasn’t alone. But no one else moved or spoke. I stood and looked my coach in the eye, hoping she’d try and stop me. When she didn’t I walked out, turning the lights off behind me. 

A few paces out the door, I paused. I’d expected my dad to follow me. I turned around, waited. When it was clear he wasn’t coming, I knew I had to go back. I returned and noticed the lights were on. My dad was still in the corner, arms crossed, silent. There is something here worth witnessing, I heard.
 Before sitting, I apologized to my team and coach, trying to explain why I felt strongly enough to leave. “I can’t be part of this. It’s not right...” They listened politely, nodded with understanding, and said nothing to refute or encourage me. Deflated, I sat down, resolved to remain with my team despite the irrefutable objections that compelled me to leave. 

As Coach resumed her speech, I looked up to my dad in the corner behind her. 

Simultaneously, my alarm went off and woke me up. When I woke, two statements rang in my mind: 1) You’re a light in dark places; retracting light isn’t your assignment. 2) You will experience the urge to abandon something I’m not ready to move on from.

---

I'll be interpreting the dreams as the series continues. Until then, feel free to use them for your own dream interpretation practice if you like! As always, thoughts, comments, and dream interpretations are welcome.

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. 

From Corpse to Bride

Spirits of my good friend's imagination.

Part 1: Imagine 

I was finishing a Yoga session, listening to a podcast from Bethel church in Redding. The podcast, which I can no longer recall specifically, mentioned prophetic visions and dreams. At that point, I quit listening so I can’t relay the teaching to you. It had something to do with Kris Vallaton having a vision, and what I took from it (without listening to a word of it) was that Kris gets visions, I don’t. Frankly, I thought that an unfair load of rotten apples. 

Have you ever been through Wenatchee, WA (the self-proclaimed apple capital of the world) after the apple harvests have finished and the leftover fruit is left to fall to the ground and decompose? I have. Kids who grow up there call the town The Snatch, in response to the vulgar aroma. 

Yes, other people receiving visions who aren’t me: the essence of vulgarity. 

I lay there in corpse pose, letting my blood settle back into its routine, and started a conversation with Dad. “I want to have visions,” I told him. Then, boldly indignant, I explained that it wasn’t very fair to give some people visions while skipping me. “That’s like saying, some of my sheep hear my voice. Some do not. Random luck of the draw. Better luck next time, kiddo.” 

The moment I paused to draw breath, Dad responded firm and clear, though not unkind.  

I didn’t clear my mind, close my eyes, or try to listen in any way. I wasn’t done speaking, actually, and wasn’t expecting to be interrupted. Nevertheless, He spoke. The words I heard were so counter to my present train of thought, two things I couldn’t do occurred simultaneously.

First, I couldn’t help but hear Him. 

Second, I couldn’t give myself any credit for coming up with the idea. Thus suggesting, for me at least, that what I’d heard was Dad. 

“You do have visions,” he said. 

“What? Visions my booty,” I would have replied had I any time. But Dad doesn’t need words to speak, and doesn’t have to inhale to give you a moment to interrupt. 

Immediately, several stories I’ve written came to mind. Then one in particular settled into the forefront of my imagination. Dad returned me to my seat in front of my computer screen in my dining room, where I wrote the story. I sat there typing as my imagination played the story like a film behind my eyes. I paused occasionally, allowing my imagination to play, then writing what I saw as quickly and accurately as I could. 

The process felt like I was translating a story from one language to another. From spirit language, which uses no words, to English. At once a limiting and liberating exercise. 

What Dad was showing me is that the thing, the head space, I’ve been told is my imagination, is also the space Dad uses to give me visions. It’s the same space engaged when I read a book, play a board game, listen to music, study a painting, watch a ballet. 

Though these things are rooted in the physical world, they transport me to non-physical realms. That’s why I read, or play games, or any of these activities. On their own, they’re neat but essentially boring. Alongside my imagination, I can engaged with them for hours and not disengage until forcibly separated.

We exercise our imagination by experiencing the creative results of another’s imagination. From there, depending on our life experiences and skills, we can begin to exercise our imaginations apart from any other’s, and create. 

Being a writer, this creative process of receiving visions and translating them occurs most naturally as I write stories. However, I believe this experience can be had in many ways. When my friend Dave carves a pipe, for example, he first imagines it what it will look like. When my husband writes a song on the guitar, he first imagines what it will sound like. When my friend Claire knits a garment, she first imagines wearing it. When my friend Josiah creates a cocktail, he first imagines drinking it. When I heal, I first imagine wholeness. 

Midnight release of, as you may have
guessed, the final Harry Potter.

What I’m saying is when we tap into our creative imagination, we are receiving visions from God. When I read a book, I’m engaging the same imagination as when I write a book. The difference is that one experience creates, the other is created. In one experience, an author provides narrative that shapes my imagination’s path. In the other experience, my imagination provides images that shape the path of my narrative. That ten people can read the same book, and if asked to make a film of that book, would produce ten radically different results, suggests to me that imagination is highly personal, subjective, and vital whether its being used in author or reader capacity. 

I’ve noticed a fear in adults throughout my life, particularly adults who attend churches, that particular stories or games are influenced by evil. I believe this to an extent: when I translate an author’s narrative into my imagination, perhaps there’s some wiggle room for demonic influence. 

Harry Potter was a huge deal for the church attending people in my life as a child. Its a book about witchcraft, clearly anti-Christ, clearly an abomination and should be kept from the hands of our impressionable, vulnerable children. Luckily, none of them were my parents, and I was encouraged to read them. 

Before we can create in meaningful ways, we must learn to imagine. One thing I noticed as a kid reading Harry Potter, was that at first, the story was simply words on a page. I’d read a page, get bored, walk away. Read two pages, get bored, walk away. Eventually, I pushed through a few more pages, and my imagination kicked in. Suddenly, I was enraptured by a world completely unlike any I’d experienced. I couldn’t stop reading. I can tell you from watching the movies, my imagination was completely different and vastly more satisfying than the filmmakers’.

Every time I picked up the book, it took less and less time for my imagination to engage, and I was able to read for ever extending periods. I’m not suggesting that Harry Potter was a vital read, and that I owe my capacity to receive visions from God to reading that series. However, as we practice engaging our imaginations, we gain stamina. We can engage more quickly and for longer periods of time.

Imagination is so vital, I’ll argue that it should be nurtured and encouraged without fail. Whether its books like Harry Potter, or games like Magic the Gathering, no fear of demonic influence should prevent the use of a person’s imagination.

In my own creative work, I’ve found that the more I read and allow other’s to shape an imagination experience, the more stamina I have when it comes to having imagination experiences completely free of influence except from God. 

I’m not sure if you caught what I just insinuated, so let me clarify: every act of creativity starts with an imagination experience influenced directly from God. 

Whether a proclaimed “Christian” or not, God gives people visions. Whether there’s wiggle room for demonic influence is besides the point. If it was created, it was inspired by God. Yes, we are capable of imagining terrible things. Even those begin inspired from God. I’ve never heard it argued that C.S. Lewis wasn’t Christian, yet he had to imagine some gruesome and disturbing war images for The Chronicles of Narnia. He actually imagined being a demon for The Screw tape Letters. 

In the song below, "Clint Eastwood" by The Gorillaz featuring Del Tha Funkee Homosapien (knowing before you do that there are a couple F*bombs ahead), you can hear a splendid example of prophecy spoken outside of a church-approved prophet. Mostly, it's a good song. I think it also compliments the concept I'm trying to explain in this post. Until Part 2, enjoy and be blessed. 

(Oh, yeah. The point of this post, as ever, is to stir conversation and stoke questions. Have at it!)

“Allow me to make this childlike in nature: Rhythm, you have it or you don’t, that’s a fallacy. I’m in them - every sproutin’ tree, every child of peace, every cloud and sea.” 

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 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). 

New Roads Part 1

There was a period of time in my life, just a few years ago, when I didn’t have a relationship with Jesus but I knew deep down I believed everything I’d heard about him. Dad brought me into community with my peers, people I worked with and lived life with, who were in a similar place relationally in their walk with Dad. 

Together, we grew. We delved into our Bibles, ate together, we drank and smoked hookah and prayed. As our relationships with each other were knit closer and tighter, so were our relationships with Dad. None of us called God “Dad” when we first started. Now, I don’t think any of us uses the title “God.” We’ve gotten to a point in our relationships that “God” is too unfamiliar, too cold. Dad, Daddy, Papa, Father - are better words to describe our creator, our lover, our best friend. 

One of the big topics for me on my journey into relationship with Dad was healing. Any conversation, and chapter or verse, could lead to a conversation about Dad’s will to heal people. 

I think at the start, my friends and I wanted to believe God heals, but we all shared doubts and misgivings and painful past experiences. Slowly and methodically, though, Dad revealed his heart to us. By now, three years from the start of our Bible studies, I can’t think of a one of us who hasn’t been healed miraculously. Not one of us hasn’t been part of laying hands and getting someone healed. 

My friend Josiah had a headache one morning while we opened our coffee shop. I started praying for his healing while doing dishes (I was too nervous to offer to lay hands). Suddenly, he turned to me and asked “Have you been praying for my head? Because it doesn’t ache anymore.” 

Our friend Esa had a torn ACL when we met him. As a group, we all laid hands and prayed. He was too stunned to make a big deal about it, and we were too nervous to poignantly ask. Eventually, after months of him not using a cane or feeling pain, we all accepted that he was completely healed and we’d been part of it. 

My husband Jeremiah and I laid hands on our pastor's back on our way to the "alter," and he got better.

Two co-workers had kidney infections healed.

Our chihuahua survived getting hit by a mini van.

My mom's migraines don't stand a chance against these hands.

The first stranger I laid hands on, an elderly homeless woman with crippling back pain, said "Lot's of people have prayed for me. That's never happened."

She got up abruptly to leave, and as she made her way to the door I asked "Do you feel better?"
Without turning or pausing she shouted, "I'm walking aren't I?"

*One of my favorite stories happened a few months ago. Claire’s mom had to have surgery on her right shoulder. A calcium deposit was slicing through the muscles and tendons around the joint, causing overwhelming pain. Surgery took months to recover from, on top of the months of pain that led up to it.

Claire's sign: "Joy is a weapon."
Winter's sign: "Smile, the sun's out" 

Eventually, she did fully recover, but peace was short-lived. Inability to use her right shoulder caused her to overuse her left shoulder, generating new, painful issues.

Claire was sick of seeing her mom hurting, and wanted her healed. When Claire got to this part of the story, I almost danced for joy: “I really wanted to wait until you could lay hands with me,” she said. “But then I decided, ‘I don’t need Kaylani here, dammit, I can do this.’” So she laid hands, prayed, and her mom’s shoulder is doing just fine thank you.* 

We required extensive preparation, first of our minds and then, after some persuasion, our hearts, for Dad to convince us his will was that all are healed. We got involved laying hands sheepishly at first, and only on those we trusted. Every time we stepped out, Dad turned our faith into substance, into the evidence of things unseen. So often, that I began to offer healing to customers, and to coworkers who weren’t part of our Bible study, as did my friends. I can’t think of any who didn't experience God and get healed.

Until now, that is.