my people (a five minute post)

Lisa-Jo, that wonderful blogger extraordinaire and my DC mama, runs five minute Fridays over at The Gypsy Mama. I have taken a few weeks away from this activity, and have been deep in the crazy chaos of beginning my senior year of college... but this week, she wrote on friends, and I have to join in. Won't you come along, and let your words fly free?

They hold me tight with their words first. They learn how many voices I have, how long I linger in silence when I'm unsure of what is next, that particular look on my face when the boy has said "no" or the singleness has become hard or the workload too much. They know the other looks, of joy bubbling over and laughter from my toes to my hair spilling in every direction.

They challenge me. They push to discover why, to explore the caverns in my heart and to listen for the echoes of their own. They hold my heart in their heart. They pick up the pieces when some things break and they laugh with me and delight with me when things become whole again.

These people, who come out from their corners of the world - from the ones on 8th St at Family Night Dinner, to the ones in this Bromley apartment, to the ones who cup mugs of chai with me at the Atomic, to the ones who watch all the best gangster movies with me, to the ones who laugh at my stupid jokes, to the ones who just tell me - "Hilary, I love you."

These are the wondrous people who draw the constellations of stars in my life. These are the people who whisper to me about the greatness, and the goodness. These are the people who, though I quiver and shake, tell me that I will be a writer and a blogger and that the dreams I dream and worth chasing.

And then we hold out our hands, full of our young blossoming life, and take off running towards the future, knowing that we hold each other. That we carry our hearts together.

Love,
Hilary

He is that good (I get surprised)

My stubborn body marches across the campus, arms folded, books and pens and papers and a spare thank you card or two stuffed in my bag. I am praying a silent, challenging prayer. I glance up at the sky with its painted fall sunset and the trees that rustle with the wind, and I whisper to God: 

(Photo: Hannah Byrnes)

Okay. Show me. Show me You know what I'm going through, this unsteadiness, this smallness, this stress. Show me You know my heart, how it is bending and aching, and how it longs for a little bit of space away to think, how it aches to hold all of the beautiful people in this world but how it feels empty. Show me, O Lord, that You made me. That I can trust You.


I unfold my arms and continue into my apartment. I open the door to the loud chaos of home: I haven't blogged in forever. There is a pile of dishes waiting to be scrubbed clean. I have so much homework in this night that I don't think I will ever make my way through it. I am tired, and hungry, and cranky, and ready to forget about that prayer.  

After all, I say to myself as I pick up the sponge to attack the traces of peanut butter in the sink, I wasn't even really listening to myself while I was praying. I was making a to-do list in the back of my mind the whole time.


So imagine with me the surprise when He answered. 

Lisa-Jo emails with a crazy idea that might mean I get to see her in October, and though I would normally have classes, and work, and every possible obstruction, it is the only week that this one class was cancelled and the other class doesn't meet, and the path is smooth from Boston to DC.

(Photo: Hannah Byrnes)

And Cami whispers as she slides my breakfast on my plate on Tuesday morning that she wants to send me on a retreat, somewhere to get away and breathe, somewhere to sleep and rest and laugh and be still before God. 

Then I return home to my roommates last night only to find that we are all sitting there, a pan of brownies in the middle, laughing and listening and sharing our stories of drama and angst and uncertainty, but laughing at ourselves, listening to the wonder of Laura Marling, and the space stays full.


I threw up the challenge and He handed back the blessings. I gave Him my uncertainty and His gift back was the delighted surprise of His love. I pouted, and complained, and told Him every sorrowful difficult confusing and tumultuous thing, and I told Him just-exactly-how-impossible-all-of-this-was-and-what-did-He-think-I-was-supposed-to-do!


And He answered me with grace. 


I would have lost heart, unless I had believed
         That I would see the goodness of the LORD
         In the land of the living.
       
 Wait on the LORD;
         Be of good courage,
         And He shall strengthen your heart; 
         Wait, I say, on the LORD!


And now, I remember how impatient I've been, and how unbelieving, and how unsure. And I realize: sometimes the grace of grace is that it surprises us. Sometimes the grace of blessing is that it waits for an unexpected moment.  


May grace go with you, and surprise you. 


Love,
Hilary

When You Ache for A Place You Love

I've been aching somewhere inside me for Washington, DC. I want it back, my feet on those broken brick sidewalks, watching leaves fall in Lincoln Park, eating cupcakes (there were so many of those) and drinking cappuccinos while reading about policy. I am straining at every mooring here in Wenham to get back because, as I have written before, there is a piece of my heart that lives in those bustling street corners and remembers the park benches and the apricot iced tea and the walk from the Eastern Market Metro back to 8th St with the people who I never imagined in all my wanderings would become so close.

A year ago I wrote a "quieter" kind of post. A year ago I was learning that the quiet voice is to be treasured and spoken and remembered longer than the loud, indignant voice and the doubtful, questioning voice. I was learning how to speak from my quiet place, how to speak with love, how to love words.

On Sunday, September 26, 2010, I reminded myself that Plato said,  "Poetry is nearer vital truth than history."

And a few days before that I had been regaling you all with the tales of my encounter with the squirrel in Farragut Park before my internship one morning. The squirrels in DC are crazy; this one was out to get me. I remember how I desperately attempted to kick a squirrel away from my bench while writing in a prayer journal and trying to look cute for the parade of cute button-down-wearing, plaid-is-the-best-look-for-fall, messenger-bags-and-loafers guys who walked by. I can close my eyes and picture myself, my elbows flying in multiple directions, my laugh uncontrollable, and the truth that, somehow, in the midst of it all, "I'm marvelous!" singing in the back of my head.

And then the Pink Elephant Shoes come into my life in early October.

And then the almost-presentation at Heritage in our public policy class. Except that we couldn't present because our contact went out of town on business and didn't tell anyone.

And then came the lesson about mercy. The lesson about one step at a time, and learning to fly. The lesson about how even when we are in the midst of beautiful new places and new experiences, when our new self is emerging, in all her laughter and joy and sorrow and confusion - God still has lessons to teach us about Himself.

And then came the lesson about promises. The lesson where God moved into my heart and didn't let go, and how He calmed the storms and moved the mountains and in the midst of it all, how He promised His faithfulness. How He promised His love.

I long for DC today like the desert longs for a hurricane. But those lessons - laughter and poetry and mercy and promise - ring out like bells and remind me that even if my feet only touch the sidewalks between the music building and the science center, even if I look out my window at New England fall sky and pine trees, even if my heart is full of senior thesis and Sara Evans and the smells of September... Still, my heart is growing towards Him. 

Love,
Hilary