the story room
Although I've been blogging now for almost two years, I'm still working on figuring out what exactly I'm doing.
I've noticed that I have the tendency to write about a story and then sum it up by sharing what I've learned from it. And I don't think there's anything wrong with it.
However, my mind is filled with memories that I don't know how to neatly conclude. Some of them are huge memories that have impacted me greatly...but a lot of them are small memories of seeming insignificance. But they've stayed with me a long time, and I have a feeling they've affected me, too, though I'm not even sure how. The 'insignificant' ones are what I'm interested in now.
I've tried writing essays about them for myself...but they seem so small that I really have no idea what to say about them. But I'm going to try to share them here...with no attempt to give any sort of analyses, reflections, or conclusions unless they're abundantly clear to me.
And we'll see how it goes...
why I enjoy being home...
why I write (and share it)
"When the woman saw that the fruit of the tree was good for food and pleasing to the eye, and also desirable for gaining wisdom, she took some and ate it. She also gave some to her husband, who was with her, and he ate it. Then the eyes of both of them were opened, and they realized they were naked; so they sewed fig leaves together and made coverings for themselves" (Genesis 3. 6, 7).
Adam and Eve are flesh of each other's flesh, bone of each other's bone, and heart of each other's heart. United, bare, and unashamed they know each other intimately and are intimately known. And it is good.
Sin enters the picture, and in a panic Adam and Eve run from each other in search of cover. They hide not just their nakedness but themselves. For the first time, they can't bear to even be looked at. They dare not catch a glimpse even of themselves. Here begins the hiding.
And we know well that isolation. We fear exposing ourselves because we've too often been met with the stare of condemnation or the shifting eyes of disinterest. We have reason to be afraid.
But guilty, wounded, and pitifully-covered as we are, still our own eyes too betray the anger, judgment, and apathy of our hearts; and with our own eyes, too, we wound. We forget that we're all frightened and lonely and covered in leaves.
I write to know myself, brokenness as well as beauty. I don't have the strength to hide from myself, so I take a deep breath and pray for Christ's mercy. And I write to remember that, beneath all our figs and furs, everyone is just as broken and in desperate need of grace...and incredibly beautiful still.
I share what I write so that, even if we dare not expose ourselves, we'll remember at least to look on one another with compassion. And in the ins and outs of life, maybe - even if it's just a little bit - somehow we'll have the courage and grace to stop hiding from each other so.