(something nudged me back to you)

 

Dear WordPress,

I have missed you. I took a long time away from you, and figured that I would just keep journaling and call it quits on the whole blog endeavor. But increasingly over the last few months, I have felt compelled to use this canvas for my words and my thoughts once again. It has been about 11 months since I last posted, and so much has happened. I am sure that you are not where I left you, and I most certainly have been transformed in this time away.

(but something nudged me back to you)

How do I put this without sounding cliche? Life is not easy. Of course, life was far from easy when I started this blog, and it was still quite the challenging adventure when I left off back in July 2016. I have, in my time away, gone through several realms of pain and suffering and growth and decay. Some realms familiar, but many of them quite new.

(and something nudged me back to you)

This past May, I hit what I consider a landmark point in the past few years of near-constant warfare with my life. Landmarks pop up when I feel the colors and tones change. For example, when I was first hospitalized in Spring 2014 is a landmark point. And when I started my battle with chronic physical illness in Fall 2015 is a landmark point. This phase that I have been floundering in since early May is one that somehow finally drove me

(nudged me)

back to you.

I used to be afraid to come back on this blog, figuring that I had lost all credibility and value as a blogger after having taken such a long break. I worried that people would be uninterested, or that they would think me flaky. I thought about starting a new blog, and then I worried that I would not be able to post consistently to it. Then I worried still that if I did come back to this blog, I would not post consistently to it and would just be another one of those millions of blogger failures, a joke.

(but something nudged me back to you)

………………………………………..

 

Here I am. Fully me, fully yours, at least in this post (and in whatever posts may come).

There are a desperate few things that I feel certain about in my life right now, and this is one of them: only with writing can I survive.

I have been writing some in my journals, in class, in my free time. And now I am back writing here.

I need this.

We will see what fruit this bares, for me, and hopefully also for you.

 

What words, to be shared between us, does the future hold?

……………………………………………..

 

As always,

Tanya

 

 

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Awe & Wonder Without A Name

What do you call those moments when you are so in awe of the glory and wonder of God that it hurts? When you are suddenly very aware of how tenderly and passionately Jesus Christ has been loving and guiding you? And all the while you want to fall on your knees and cry out in surrender?

I have had these moments before. In fact the first time I found myself in a situation such as this was on vacation with my family, 11 years old, and praying quietly and tearfully alone in my vacation room. I probably had similar experiences throughout high school, as well, but after that time on vacation, the next experiences I can put my finger on have all occurred during my college career. To be most specific, these un-namable but sacred moments have been a regular occurrence for me over the past 12 months as I have fought through one of the most challenging yet rewarding years of my life.

So, now that you know I have experienced these sorts of things before, let’s get back to what they actually are. Do they have a name? “God moment,” as I used to call them just doesn’t seem appropriate. While they are without question moments filled with the knowledge of the presence of God, moments in which God’s reign is tangible, “God moment” seems oversimplifying. These moments are sacred, yet simultaneously turbulent and pacifying.

“Sacred moments,” perhaps?

“God storms,” because of the overwhelming, turbulent factor? No- that could easily be misinterpreted.

“Reminders of why I want to live for Christ”… No- too long.

“Sanctification”… If that is really what it is?

 

Or should I just not bother to put a name on it? Just soak in the power and goodness of the moment?

I like to put names to things. I guess that is one of my quirks. But, perhaps, when it comes to things concerning God, I shouldn’t try too hard. Not being able to name something is a sign of a lack of full understanding, and in this case that is completely appropriate. Truly I do not understand God and the way he works (as much I sometimes would like, anyway). And my lack of understanding is much of what leads to my awe and love of God.

So, hoping that this all made any sense at all…

I am going to end this bit as I focus on claiming for myself a contented acceptance of my inability to box and name these wondrous meetings with God.


 

Truly, I hope that this did make sense. As a writer, I want my readers to be able to understand what I am talking about… Duhh. But alas, if it didn’t make sense to you, it at least helped me myself.


With that, I wish you a cool and comfortable nighttime, with a hint of awe and wonder.

– Tanya

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The Art of Reading… Or Beginning To Read

I sit here surrounded by a large pile of books. Some of them I have already begun to read, some I have not ventured through beyond the cover. Some I want to read for joy, some for knowledge, some for spiritual growth, some for my writing. Now where to begin?

Some of them I have already begun to read, some I have not ventured…. But really, where to BEGIN?

There’s “On Writing: A memoir of the craft” by Stephen King, which I got from the library yesterday. But I couldn’t very well leave the library planning to read this book without having read a single piece by King himself. So I also now have “Christine” by King. And a few books that are long overdue to the library… A book of poetry by Ai, a book of poetry by Edna St. Vincent Millay to read in contrast with the book by Ai, a book by Frances Mayes on the art of reading and writing poetry to help me to understand the books by Ai and St. Vincent Millay. Then there’s that book I bought in March, “The Ocean At The End Of The Lane” by Neil Gaiman– a New York Time’s best-seller. I assume it must be good, and it appears so from the first twenty or so pages. But there is a suicide within those first 20 or so pages, and so I must wait until I am in a comfortable state of mind to continue deeper into that book. Oh, and how could I resist buying books at the bookstore where I get an employee discount? I couldn’t, clearly. I work at a restaurant now which is joined with a bookstore that offers me a 30% discount. Just the word “discount,” no matter what percentage be attached to it, is thrilling and tempting enough in itself. So I just purchased a compilation of American poetry and a book called “Dear White People.” Both of these books I intend to use for enjoyment and education, particularly “Dear White People” since I am a minority in my workplace.

Oh, do you see my dilemma? So many riches, so little time, so little focus, so many different motivations.

So, where to begin?

What to educate myself on next? What can I choose, knowing that I will read it with dedication, cover to cover?

Where to begin?


 

As always,

T. LaReveur

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Waters Flow Where Waters Will

There is a fountain

That flows and flows

And never lets up

And often you will find

A blue toad sitting

On its rim,

Its tadpoles taking a swim

As the cool ridges of water

Fold over and over again.

 

When it rains, the fountain overflows

And its contents spill

Over rounded stone edges.

 

It is really delightful

When it overflows,

An elegant chaos

Sparkling and muddy.

There is a turbulence in it,

A beauty, too,

When the waters do not exactly

Fall where you might hope.

 

But the blue toad,

He seems not to be bothered

And he splashes around,

Makes a lively sound

As waters flow

Where waters will.

And I think—

Is not this much like all

Of life?

Elegant chaos,

And waters flowing

Where waters will,

But waters that

Never let up.

 

 

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Perfect Companion

I call out as my heart grows faint,

From the ends of the earth I call.

And he comes, my beloved companion

Comes to my side.

This time, he sits with me and leans close.

He gently holds my right hand

In between both of his,

And I feel the calluses on his fingers

Hard-earned from his days spent wood-working.

 

I find great comfort in my time with him,

Comfort enough to find ease and cry.

My tears rush quickly, pouring out with great fervor

And some of them get caught in his hair,

But he doesn’t mind.

His hair is long, longer even than mine.

He is the sort that Grandmother

Would call a “Hippie.”

But as my tears flow, he doesn’t complain.

He just holds my hand and shares with me

The warmth of his heart.

 

Sometimes I don’t cry, and we just sit

Together, quietly thanking one another

For giving their love.

And sometimes I am already crying

And he comes and puts me on his shoulders,

Carrying me through my day,

The scent of fish and saltwater rubbing

Off of his robe and onto

My skin.

And he carries me until my eyes are dry,

Until my legs are stronger and I

Remember to laugh.

Or sometimes we talk about the troubles

Of this world, or about the beauty

Around us, or we dance together

Under the moonlight

Before he tucks me in to bed.

 

He always comes when I call out to him.

But in every moment, in those when I do not call,

I have this strong sense

That he is there beside me.

 

They say that when you are in love,

You are never alone in spirit.

And oh, I love my Jesus

And HE loves me.

 

…………………………..

A poem by T. LaReveur

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Getting Used To Invisible Illness

Today had, like most days recently, a late/rough beginning. I pulled myself out of bed at around 10:30am. This was an accomplishment that I want to be sure to note. I got up to, however, just moments later lay down on the sofa with a blanket and fall back asleep. I felt I hardly had any other option. My limbs, really every part of my body, felt as though they had been injected with lead. I did not want to turn my head, I did not want to shuffle my feet down the hallway, I did not want to hold my eyes open. The fatigue of Fibromyalgia is no joke. I never, and I mean never, feel rested upon waking up.

I slept on the sofa until about 12:30. I then ate some breakfast, read part of the newspaper, and plopped right back down on the couch. I slept that time until 2:30.

I feel so upset that I sleep so often. I feel unproductive. Part of me wants to think I am lazy, but I fight that off. I am not lazy. I have illnesses and I am going through a difficult time. I think this time for me would be a bit easier, though, if people knew how my Fibromyalgia and my thyroid disorder make me feel. I want some part of my illnesses to be visible so that people will understand at least somewhat what I am going through. Why is it so hard for them to know that I feel as poorly as I do and am fighting as hard as I am? And of course, they are doing nothing wrong. Nobody has maliciously chosen to misunderstand my illnesses. Unfortunately, though, that fact doesn’t make things easier.

All this Fibromyalgia stuff makes my heart sick. It is really difficult. I don’t have the strength for everything that I have to go through. I thank God for giving me his undiminishing strength to move forward. It is becoming harder not to thank God for getting me through each new day.

I do not understand, as much as I would like, why God lets us people suffer in the ways that he does. But, and that’s not a big “but,” I trust in him! My Father cares for me, he has a plan for me, and he is the only firm foundation on which I can plant my feet. May I forever stand only in him.

May I forever stand only in him even when my body is weighed down with lead and aches and pains and I am overwhelmed.

May I forever stand in him.

May we forever stand in him. Yes, I have illnesses, but we humans all have something that threatens to tear us apart. And the only way we can stand, which I pray we remember, is if we stand in him.

 

As always,

Tanya

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