Allison

Meet Allison. She stirs her coffee with one hand while grabbing napkins with the other. The woman she is accompanied by is still placing her order at this little café in the city, and a chocolate cookie is in her hand. Offering it to Allison through a mouthful of the sweet goodness, she laughs as she spills chocolate out of her mouth. Allison refuses, “I use to love chocolate, but ever since I’ve been pregnant, I just don’t like it anymore. Weird, huh?” The older woman laughs, takes her coffee, and heads to a table near the back with Allison behind her. Even under her black, wool coat and the big scarf she has hanging around her neck, she is unmistakably pregnant.

I get my drink and sit at a table next to them with my journal in hand. It’s my last time at Square One Coffee before my move to Cockeysville. There’s a lot of commotion tonight: an impromptu band is stumbling through music, a few people sit at tables with laptops in front of them, and I can hear the staff joking in the kitchen.

I start to learn about these two women. The older one is Catholic, and a single parent herself. Allison is living by herself, just started college, is agnostic, and is very much expecting. The two hardly know one another, but Allison feels comfortable with this woman for some reason, and has sought her out for advice.

They talk about the options. There’s option A: to keep the baby. Option B is adoption, and option C is abortion. Because the older woman went through the same thing, and kept her baby even though it was rough, her advice is to go with option A. She is definitely pro-life, by her comments, and would be just as happy for Allison if she chose option B. Allison talks through the entire situation: the boyfriend, the house, school, work, friends . . . . She doesn’t see how any option is doable except for option C, an abortion. She doesn’t seem to really want to abort her baby, but at the same time she doesn’t feel ready to add a baby to her lifestyle. Tucking her bangs behind her ear, she sighs. “What am I suppose to do?”

The conversation turns toward God. There’s a fire to the older woman’s voice now, and a frustration to Allison’s. This is not what she came to talk about. The older woman soon changes the subject, leaving Allison with a challenge to look up to heaven and ask God, if He is real, to help her.

The pair soon leaves the shop, leaving me at the table with my journal and pen, and a prayer for Allison and her little one.

That was last week. I still think about Allison and the tiny person inside her, and I pray for her.

Another Moving Day

Friday I left my little closet bedroom in Lancaster city and moved to my fifth home in the past year. (Indiana, Rosedale, Lancaster with the Weis family, then with Hannah and Melody, and now Cockeysville.)

I don't think this will be a long post because I really have nothing else to say. I miss Lancaster, and love it so deeply.

The end.

Why Must The Curtains Close?

Why must seasons end? Why must straight roads turn? Why must the curtains close? Why must the credits roll?

Will the tears ever end? Must as soon as I stop crying about one thing, I begin to cry over something else? Why did I ever ask God to soften me, and pierce me, and let my blood flow?

Can't it be another way? Why would I move here and love here to be yanked away from it?

Today, I walked the city street one last time. Streets that I have often walked in prayer. I walked by the fence that I dream about. Even before I had ever walked that section of town, I had dreams of the ghetto, and a fence. That fence. There is no bike leaning up against it, like in my dreams. At least no bike on the side that I walk past. But without a doubt, it's that fence. As I passed the fence, and continued up the street, a car came flying down the hill, and a girl was shrieking from inside. Not far behind was a police car, in pursuit. I wondered why God turned my heart to the city, why I love it so much, and why that scene didn't panic me.

Why did God bring me here, and make my soul fall in love? Why did He open doors to a place to live and a job in Cockeysville? Why did I have to walk by an apartment for rent in the city today? Why couldn't the sign have gone up tomorrow? Must I be torn like this? Why must I love so intensely a place I normally would have run from, a place that would have made me uncomfortable, a place that would make me fearful? Why must these seven months end so abruptly? Why must the curtains close?

When can I come back, God? Will You bring me back?

When The Credits Roll

The chapter of my life in Lancaster will soon end. When the credits roll, tears will stain my face.

I have had to take one detour since my move to Lancaster. I was trying to go to a tack shop in Gap, but the road was closed; there was a detour. Seemingly, there was no reason for the detour. Perhaps there was road work, but I couldn't see it; maybe a tree was down; possibly a car accident. I don't know. The detour sent me on little back roads made of dirt for a horse and buggy. Eventually, I ended up at the tack shop.

I feel like I'm about to take a detour. There's no way through right now. It's not a bad thing; it just takes patience to wait. In April, I will move to Cockeysville. Still the ghetto, sort of. Everything pointed to the move: Rising gas prices, closer to the salon, only working one day a week in Lancaster for the summer, closer to family and friends, no apartments for rent in the city where I wanted to live . . . . My desire is to be back in the city one day, but for now I'm taking a detour.

I love Lancaster city: All the parks and cafes and beautiful streets; NewSong Fellowship, my church home here; my roommates. I have learned so much living here. I can parallel park my car now, and I (generally) remember to move my car for street cleaning! My weaknesses and my stengths do not define me; Jesus Christ does. Freedom. Frustrations. Need. Surrender. I've learned to cry, to be thankful, and to be alone.

I am finally settled here, and now I will take a detour and begin that process all over again in Cockeysville.

Horatio Spafford wrote this hymn in 1873. As the credits roll, my soul sings along.

When peace, like a river, attendeth my way,
When sorrows like sea billows roll;
Whatever my lot, Thou has taught me to say,
It is well, it is well, with my soul.

It is well, with my soul,
It is well, it is well, with my soul.

Though Satan should buffet, though trials should come,
Let this blest assurance control,
That Christ has regarded my helpless estate,
And hath shed His own blood for my soul.

It is well, with my soul,
It is well, it is well, with my soul.

My sin, oh, the bliss of this glorious thought!
My sin, not in part but the whole,
Is nailed to the cross, and I bear it no more,
Praise the Lord, praise the Lord, O my soul!

It is well, with my soul,
It is well, it is well, with my soul.

For me, be it Christ, be it Christ hence to live:
If Jordan above me shall roll,
No pang shall be mine, for in death as in life
Thou wilt whisper Thy peace to my soul.

It is well, with my soul,
It is well, it is well, with my soul.

But, Lord, ’tis for Thee, for Thy coming we wait,
The sky, not the grave, is our goal;
Oh, trump of the angel! Oh, voice of the Lord!
Blessed hope, blessed rest of my soul!

It is well, with my soul.
It is well, it is well, with my soul.

And Lord, haste the day when my faith shall be sight,
The clouds be rolled back as a scroll;
The trump shall resound, and the Lord shall descend,
Even so, it is well with my soul.

It is well, with my soul,
It is well, it is well, with my soul.

I Dunno

Say it just like it's spelled. I dunno. I say these two words quite frequently. I just don't know. I don't know what tomorrow will bring; don't know where I'll be living; don't know what job I'll hold this summer; I just dunno.

Pull apart the petals on a rose and toss them in the air. That is what my life is like right now. Don't know where they will land, but I know it will be messy. Look up and try to catch them as they fall, the wind catching them and teasing your fingertips only to snatch them away again. Look down and realize they are all on the ground now, and scurry to pick them all up. Find a big book and smash each of those little petals between its pages, close the book, and wait. Wait for the petals to dry out, and you finally have something beautiful again.

There's the jobs. Love my jobs. One is far away. The other is close by, but I'll only be working there once a week this summer. And so I need a summer job.

There's the house. Love my bedroom. But this is temporary and I need to find a new location to live in May. The city, like I had thought? Or closer to my far away job? And so I need to find a place to live.

There's relationships. Love so many people in my life. There are the old friends back at home. There are new ones here. Where I move will change what those friendships look like, and bring even more people into my life. And so I cried on the way home tonight.

I am torn. And my petals are falling. I dunno.

". . . we do not know what to do, but our eyes are upon You." (2 Chronicles 20:12)