Like a platypus{..}

"Lighthouses don’t go running all over an island looking for boats to save; they just stand there shining."  - Anne Lamott

For the past 22 minutes I've been thinking about the authors that I really like. And Anne Lamott is one of them. And so I googled "Anne Lamott quotes", since I didn't bring any of her books to Guatemala. I was reading through them while listening to "I Have Loved You Wrong" by the Swell Season, and was nodding my head in agreement with one after the other, and "mmhm"-ing to the parts that spoke into my life. When I read this one (the one I quoted at the top), I smiled. And I wondered if the skin around my eyes wrinkled. I hope it did. I'm exited to grow old and have wrinkles.
I feel like a platypus walking through an overgrown jungle when I'm writing for others to read. [Even when I'm writing to myself, in my abundance of journals, I rarely go back and reread them, and if I did I'm pretty certain the only parts that would make sense were the quotes I copied down.] I don't much like the feeling because it feels like I wasn't made to write, or I was made to write and I don't know what tools I have in my belt. Like I'm pulling out a word here and an idea there but I'm not sure how to hammer them together and what shape of nail or what size or color staple I should use. Kind of like a little kid learning to swim, flapping around all over the place, getting water on the dry towels and in Dad's mouth. woopsies. I should carry a sign around with me. It would say: "When asking Sarah to tell you who she is, you will need a dictionary, and a large piece of paper and your favourite song." The dictionary because I'll need you to give me definitions and words that I can nod my head at "mmhm that sounds right, I think that's how I be!" You'll need the large piece of paper because I'll need to draw you a picture to give you an idea of who I am, or I'll draw you a mind-map of words I think give you some insight. Finally, would you share with me your favourite song? Because I'll find something in the lyrics or the rhythm that I like and then I'll tell you and then you'll know me a bit more. But you gotta ask. Because I want to know you more than I want you to know me, because "me" is a little up in the air. Kind of like a bunch of helium-filled balloons of all different shapes and colours that you had in your hand, and I squirm away because I know when you ask me a question, I'll get lost in my thoughts and it won't come out right, and I'll end up standing in a tangled jumble of words. See, I'm like a platypus in a jungle, getting caught in vines and dragging them into other vines and creating very long sentences of vine-y words. Oh, exasperation.
What is my motivation for writing this post? hmm...I think it was to make you smile. I like it when you smile. And I think so does the person sitting beside you, or across the room from you or down the street. I like how your skin wrinkles around you eyes. I wonder if your skin does the same thing Jesus' skin does when he smiles...

No matter how wide you stretch your fingers..

"There is hurt here that cannot be fixed by band-aids or poetry." Maybe this hurt isn't meant to be fixed. I'm sitting in the suffering because I've been told suffering produces endurance, and endurance produces character, and character produces hope, and hope does not put us to shame, because God's love has been poured into our hearts through the Holy Spirit who has been given to us.
Amen.
Poetry heals. Holy poetry. I am reading through the Proverbs, one for every day of the month, so today I read 24. I'm wearing the proverbs like a layered dress of white fabric, letting God's love letter surround me and cover me, letting his wisdom unfold the darkness that is like a loose leaf piece of paper. It's covered in lies written out in black Sharpie. The lies have soaked through the other side of the paper, so that even if you put it up to a mirror the lies would seep into your perception. God is wrapping me up in truth and grace and righteousness, and like a warm washcloth on the forehead, his love is soaking into my clenched body, mind and soul.
mmm wisdom. So sweet, like sugar that melts in your mouth, like honey. Proverbs 24 says that wisdom to our soul is like the sweet taste of honey on our lips.

"No matter how wide you stretch your fingers your hands will always be too small to catch all the pain you want to heal. Don't keep your nose up in the air like that you're just smelling for smoke so you can follow the trail back to a burning house so you can find the boy who lost everything in the fire to see if you can save him or else find the boy who lit the fire in the first place to see if you can change him. Rain will wash away everything if you let it. There will be days like this, when you open your hands to catch and wind up with only blisters and bruises. When you step out of the phone booth and try to fly and the very people you want to save are the ones standing on your cape. When your boots will fill with rain and you'll be up to your knees in disappointment and those are the very days you have all the more reason to say thank you because there is nothing more beautiful than how the ocean refuses to stop kissing the shoreline no matter how many times it is sent away." - Sarah Kay "B"

Amen.

hmm...

Let me ask for your patience. Trying to figure out this blog is a bit like darning old [my thoughts are old; I've got nothing to share with you that is new] grey socks for the first time. Ever. I'm not quite sure what color thread [design, content] to use, because I think they would look cute with lime green thread, but then I remember I'm not the one wearing [reading] these socks [blog.]  hmm...I'm not sure how to go about this in a unique way, being a little behind the times starting a blog. But then, so what if it's not unique. Every pair of grey socks is different, right? I forgive you if you are bored. Or confused.
hmm...Should I apologize if these words I am spitting through the tips of my fingers embitter you or frustrate you?
But who are you to tell me who I am.
I have a secret to share with you:
I'm sick of secrets.
Darkness, sneaking, lies, deceit, fake-ness..hmm...
I'm just trying to impress you, so you think I'm "calidad", as my dear Guatemalan friends would offer when asked for the translation of "cool".
I want you to tell me who I am, because I'm quite confused, a bit like one of those purple pipe cleaners you glued to a paper mache mask in kindergarten or made into caterpillars with fuzzy pompoms. I'm like a purple pipe cleaner that was supposed to take the shape of the finger it was placed on, but it won't come off smoothly and perfectly, it gets a little twisted and crooked and distorted as it's pulled off that delightful index finger. You are that finger. You who, if I meet and drink 3 cups of tea with, will try to imitate. If I were a Jewish boy, I would give you a Hershey's Kiss and 200Q if I wouldn't be one of the top students of a Rabbi. I would be covered, absolutely encased, in the dust of my Rabbi. Rob Bell would be proud. I can just about taste it, I can taste the flavor of following Christ with my whole heart, soul, and strength. It kind of tastes like bananas dipped in chocolate, or roasted cocoa beans with honey and chilies, or avocados with salt and lime. I think that's also the taste of freedom, of joy, of identity, of reality. hmm...
Jesus, touch my mind, touch my heart with your delightful fingers. You probably don't nibble and pick at the skin around your fingernails like I do. I wonder what your hands look(ed?) like. I wonder if you had hair on your knuckles, or how many splinters were embedded in your calloused palms. I wonder what your voice sounded like when you sang. What would you have sung about? What lyrics would you have dropped for John or for Peter? What rhythms would you have made for Mary or Judas using an old oil jar or plate or wooden box? I wonder what it was like to celebrate with you. I wonder how your skin wrinkled around your eyes when you threw your head back and laughed. Did you giggle, or bellow, or wheeze when you laughed?   
So I sit back against the concrete wall and sigh, hmm...
Oh, life.
All these questions. All this trying to figure out who the heck I am. I think I'm giving myself a headache.
Let me drink more water and listen to "I Have to Believe" by Rita Springer one more time. They say that helps with headaches. Drinking water. hmm...
I don't think I've found what I'm looking for.
But I think I can taste what I'm looking for.
It tastes like bananas covered in chocolate and roasted cocoa beans wrapped in honey, and avocados mixed with salty limes.
I think I'm looking for Jesus.
hmm...