climbing

A few days ago, I was talking to a counselor about life and how I wondered about progress and how I felt like a failure - I was back in his office, fighting the same battles, wondering when I would stop losing. I knew that I had been doing some things right. I knew that some parts of my life seemed to be fitting into place. But I was back in that office. "I just feel like I'm right back where I started. I just wonder if I'll ever move forward."

And that's when he told me this:

"Sometimes life is like a spiral staircase. You may see the same views twice, but that doesn't mean you're not climbing higher."

Sometimes life - our grief, our struggles, our victories - sometimes it's like a spiral staircase. We find ourselves fighting to overcome the same negative thoughts and behavior patterns that we were so sure were gone. We find ourselves suddenly plunged into grief over five-year-old tragedies nearly as fresh as the day they happened. We find ourselves climbing a spiral staircase.

Of course we have moments of falling backwards. Of course we may stumble. (I, for one, have always had a problem of tripping on stairs.) But the truth is this: our progress is not dependent on willpower or initiative alone. The only true progress we experience in any facet of our lives comes because of the grace God so freely lavishes on us. It's only when we accept this gift that we find ourselves taking the first steps up the staircase, steps we can take because Someone is finally holding our hands.

And as I think about how I've been seeing the same views twice, three times, hundreds of times, I'm forced to recognize that sometimes remembering and repeating is simply part of living and sometimes they're a reminder that it's time to hold His hand again. They drive me to a place where I understand that my "independence" really only makes me fall down. I need Someone to walk the stairs with me, to hold my hand, to lead the way. It's only when I come to a complete realization that I cannot legitimately do life on my own that I am able to unclench my fists, brush off my dirty knees, and allow him to gently pull me to my feet. 

Maybe we see the same views twice for a bigger reason than just life-cycles. Maybe those moments of heartache and hardship are chances for us to conquer a situation that nearly bested us before. Maybe when we see the same views twice, we can approach them as precious moments of learning rather than obstacles to be conquered. 

And let me just digress and say this - we don't have to learn these lessons alone. Déjà vu moments don't mean I'm a failure. They don't mean I've started all over. The definition of who I am and my worth is not dependent upon how many times I face an obstacle and win or lose. No. My worth lies in God's definition of me as His child - a child loved enough by Him that He offers to walk the staircase with me. Each time I face these moments, He offers to pick me up. He encourages me. He's ready to lead the way, and He's willing to carry me when the climb seems too long or when the next weeks, days, and hours seem like so many insurmountable weeks, days, and hours before. 

We can be grateful because we know that God is able to handle the sharp curves of life - we clearly cannot, we simply haven't the strength - but He does. He sees the twists ahead. He knows the trials we'll face two, five, ten times, and He's ready to lead the way. The question is - will we let Him?

worth it

Earlier today, someone suggested something to me and I ended up being totally embarrassed -- my face went red. And I mean bright red. It made me feel so self-conscious. And it was stupid for me to, because, honestly, it was a good suggestion. I thought about it after church and shared what happened with my brother. (He so tactfully pointed out that I should feel pretty stupid for getting embarrassed over something so silly.) As I began to think about why I reacted how I did, I began to notice that my thoughts kept coming back to this -- not worth it. You're just not worthy. Please don't waste your time thinking that something or someone good could happen to you because you're just not worth it. You've screwed up so many times. You've said too many stupid things. You're too awkward, and you have cellulite and acne. You are damaged. Incapable. Broken. Scarred.

As I thought about this for the majority of the day, I finally just had to stop. I was an emotional mess. God -- I don't feel worthy. I look back on my life and see that I have rarely felt worthy of being accepted, of being loved, of being liked. I am acutely aware of my unworthiness and fully acknowledge it. It's not humility. It's just a fact and something with which I constantly struggle. In moments like these and at the end of the day, I have no choice but to collapse in His arms and cry, to share my unworthiness with Him. Because, let's face it, I'm not worthy. None of us are. None of us are worthy of His love.

But I call you worthy, anyway, He says. You are worth it because you're Mine.

To be faced with a thought like this forces me to become even more aware of my unworthiness while at the same time experiencing a lightness, a freedom, and to become utterly grateful that I -- for some reason -- am the recipient of this grace and acceptance. My status as unworthy shifts to worth it when I realize the Creator of worth calls me valuable. I realize, too, that there is a distinct difference between unworthy and worthless. I will always be unworthy of His love, but I have never been worthless. I am a part of God's creation. He formed me. He made me. I can recognize my unworthiness and thank God that He has a grace outside the bounds of human comprehension.

But even realizations like this so easily get crowded out by self-doubt, by legitimate questions that exist in the human realm -- "But God, I fail you every day. I have done so many things to hurt you. I have blatantly turned my back on you thousands of times. I am damaged. How could I be anything but broken and second-rate?"

Because you're Mine.

My worth is dependent not on my accomplishments, my haircut, or my perceived goodness. It's grace. Simply that. Simply a gift that I cannot understand and must willfully acknowledge every day. Yes, I am worth it because He says so. I can be loved because I am His. My past, my pain, my anxieties, my abilities -- none of these define me. God says I am worthy. God says I am His. He died to prove it -- the greatest manifestation of true love humanity has ever and will ever experience. He makes me worth it.

You made all the delicate, inner parts of my body

      and knit me together in my mother’s womb.

Thank you for making me so wonderfully complex!

      Your workmanship is marvelous—how well I know it.

Psalm 139:13-14 (NLV)

God's Spirit touches our spirits and confirms who we really are. 

We know who he is, and we know who we are: Father and children.

Romans 8:16 (The Message)

happiness

God's been talking to me about happiness lately. He's been telling me a few things. Let me share them with you...

Happiness isn't found in the latest fashions.

Happiness isn't found in relationships.

Happiness isn't found in careers, family members, or a car that runs consistently.

Happiness isn't dependent on whether I wake up when my alarm goes off.

Happiness isn't reserved for weddings, weekends, and pay raises.

Happiness doesn't happen at size 4, when I finally have clear skin, or when my hair looks good.

Happiness doesn't magically show up during worship songs or profound sermons.

You already know what I'm going to say. You already get that happiness - joy, real life - is only found when life is lived in total abandon to the Creator. You know it. I've known it - this fundamental truth, the foundation of the Christian life - for ages in our heads. But I rarely live it. It only sometimes travels from my brain down to my heart. Brief aha! moments occur when I let go and throw myself into His able arms, but, in reality, it's seemingly so much simpler to search for happiness in things I can touch, smell, and explain. But they don't work. Disappointment, discouragement, depression, confusion, pain - these are the end results. Not that the life of a believer won't be riddled with discouraging, disappointing, depressing, confusing, painful moments - far from it - but these moments, rather than pushing us to the brink of despair, offer us the opportunity to say, "Yes, life is hard, but God is good. Look at what He's done for me. I can praise Him. I can have joy - my happiness is dependent on Him, not on my circumstances."

God doesn't want us to not be happy. God doesn't want us to not experience pleasure. God's not sadistic. God placed that happiness-longing in our hearts for one reason only - to bring us to Him. The main goal of the Christian life is to be happy. People! We are supposed to be smiling! But true happiness and fulfillment only manifest themselves completely and permanently when they're found in the Creator of happiness. This is all part of God's grand plan to draw us to Himself. Find happiness in the sunset. Find happiness in hot coffee and friendships. Find happiness when you get the job. Find happiness when you don't. Experience happiness when a father dies. Find happiness when you don't understand. Find happiness in every situation, because as you find real happiness, you'll find yourself being drawn to Him in all circumstances. 

He is the author of our happiness, the One who penned our emotions. That longing inside doesn't go away. We can medicate with chocolate and boyfriends and cell phones, but that's all it is - medication. But God loves us enough to let us medicate. He knows we'll come out empty and probably bruised. And while our initial response may be to blame God for the hurt, the truth is, we can be grateful for the pain. The happiness He offers becomes even more attractive when compared to the emptiness of human solutions.

Wow, God. What amazing love You have. Why You should care enough about me that You'd want me to be happy makes no sense. Why You are willing to let me run away, spit in Your face, say I can handle it on my own, yet still let the happiness-longing live and drive me to You is absolutely astounding. But You do. Should I fall on my face now? Should I cry, laugh, or just shut up? God, the only response is to run to You. You are the key to happiness. You satisfy. You more than satiate my desire. My human mind can't comprehend the fullness of who You are and the love, the peace, the contentment You offer. And that's all there is to it. You are happiness. 

winter

I suppose this will sound like most of my posts, but maybe it's because it's what God's trying to pound into my head (lovingly, of course). I want to write about seasons. I want to write about autumn. And winter. And the cold. And dying. And living. And learning. And the beauty that we all know bursts forth in spring, but also the hidden beauty of harsh January evenings.

Is death a beautiful thing - a beautiful process - because it doesn't have to be the end, because it can be a beautiful beginning? Death itself holds a mystery and beauty of its own, even before the buds of new life push through damp, brown earth. It's not so much death that is the tragedy - it's the separation that results from sin, the separation from the Savior. In fact, death can be the bridge between a hopeless existence and a brilliant new adventure, a love story, a relationship with a daddy, a friend, an all-powerful, awe-inspiring, incomprehensible manifestation of real life.

It's no wonder that we are called to carry our crosses every day. It's no wonder that we are called to die. As we die to ourselves - to the sin that separates us from him - we become lovely. We begin to radiate the colors of a God-led life. Life and death are one and the same - death becomes the doorway to newness. Yes, the winters of life and the death-moments that may seem tragic offer the chance for me and for you to give off our brightest hues. We have the opportunity to shout to the world that God is great and in the middle of dark, gray autumns, the gold, red, and orange of death offer hope. And in the middle of long, white winters, the sun looks brighter, the sky looks bluer, and even the snow - the element that seems to bring this death - gives off its own unique beauty, changing the way we look at landscapes we see each day.

If there were never snow, if there were never November, if there were never moments of hurt, lessons on forgiveness, betrayals, broken hearts, letdowns, disappointments, confusion, scars, and bruising, the life of spring would be meaningless - the grace of God would seem small. Maybe it would even seem deserved. Maybe we wouldn't even notice it.

As I look back on my own experience, I see how the big deaths - the truly painful moments in my life - and the little deaths - the daily choices I must make - have shaped me, how God has used the winters and falls to create something - someone - that is slowly learning to be beautiful. Out of death grows life, but even the dying is an experience to cherish, because it's the dying that shows me just how big God is, how much I need him, how much he loves me, how much I can't comprehend about this human condition. I can be thankful for each dying moment, even the ones I don't yet understand. I'm thankful that pain can be transformed to beauty. I'm thankful that death means more than an ending - that in losing myself, in dying, I'm finally found, finally alive, scars and all.

brand new

I read the Message version of Colossians 3 the other day. And then I read it again. And again. And again. When I personalized this chapter, I was floored. This is how I should be living. This is what new life looks like. I wonder why I fight against becoming new - becoming the Colossians 3 person? After all, God says I'm a new creation. Colossians 3 should define me.

This is something I've wondered about a lot. Why, when I've been rescued from this death-life, do I continually return to the old way of living? Why, when I should be repulsed by those things, do I find them so easy to call home? I've started to realize that I don't even like the way I feel when I return to self-destructive thoughts and actions, but I seem to constantly find myself digging a hole and then trying to burrow back out - "God, I've screwed up again. I hate the way it feels. I hate the isolation from you. I hate feeling so far away."

But God's been telling me something: "I'm not far away. You are. You're choosing to run, to trust other things, to do what you know breaks my heart. But I'm here, when you decide to come back. My hand and my heart never moved. I am a constant. The road back won't be easy, but when times are hard and when you're struggling to stay strong, that's when you get to rely on me. That's when you get to know me better. That's when you get to fall into my arms, fall into my lap, fall in love with me."

I think it's crazy how I can read passages like Colossians 3 and still walk this earth like I belong here. I don't. I'm a new creation. A new person. I'm wearing new clothes and have a new purpose. But really, I'd rather just forget all that and do things my way. I mean, goodness, God, it's not like you know what you're doing. It's not like you've got a better idea of the future than I do. Clearly, I can handle this on my own.

Ridiculous.

But so the way I live, unfortunately, the majority of the time. God hasn't given up on me yet, though. I think the fact that life just really stinks when I'm apart from him is evidence that he's holding out for me, that he's willing to let me suffer and do life my way, because he loves me enough to let me hurt. If I never hurt, if I never felt badly, if God held my hand the whole way in an attempt to show me his provision and say "Hey, the Colossians 3 life is better!" I'm pretty sure I'd never get the point. I'm pretty sure I'd just forget God, take the credit, and be a hot mess.

God must love me an awful lot to put up with my antics. Really. I am amazed that 1) He lets me go off and do my prodigal thing 2) He lets me get hurt and learn and 3) He welcomes me back. He welcomes me back. He welcomes you back. Isn't that thought enough to drive you to tears? Honestly?

As I think about the Colossians 3 life, I know that it will be a continual process. I know it'll take me a long time - a life time - to be able to truly embody it. But I'm thankful God doesn't call me to be perfect. I'm thankful God doesn't call me to be in control. I'm thankful God loves me enough to let me hurt. I'm thankful God loves me enough to hold me when I come running back. What a beautiful picture his grace becomes against the backdrop of my imperfections. What a mind-blowing expression of real love.

one year

It's been one year - one year since the beginning of a brand new adventure. I look back at what all has happened since last September and I'm floored. Wow, God - it's amazing how you protect, how your plans extend beyond my human capacity to know, and how, even looking back, I still fight you for control almost every time.

This year I've learned . . .

That it's okay to take care of myself

That I love traveling.

I enjoy learning.

Coffee please.

Pilates is a great way to de-stress.

That the human capacity to hurt is great.

The human capacity to love is great.

God's love is absolutely supernatural, absolutely incomprehensible.

Forgiveness truly is healing.

Doing the right thing will cost you.

I'm capable of more than I imagined.

I'm fragile (and that's okay).

I'm strong (and that's okay).

People will let you down.

God is reliable.

A life lived in devotion to self is no life at all.

Writing and therapy are one and the same (aren't you glad I drag you through my therapy sessions?)

It's okay to grieve.

It's okay to be happy.

It's okay to admit you're weak.

God's grace is big enough for me, so it's big enough for the people who hurt me. too.

I don't have to know the future.

I don't have to always be in control.

Perfection is impossible.

Friends come when you're least expecting.

God's Word, his presence, his promises - they truly are life-changing.

I am most myself when I allow God to be God in my life.

The crazy thing is, looking back, I know I've learned these things, I know I've experience them, but I rarely ever live like it. Mostly, I concern myself with work-worries or working out or trying to plan the perfect future for myself or stressing over the who, what, why, when, where, and how of the little things, the big things, and everything in-between. What a ridiculous, exhausting, unproductive way to live! After all, that stuff - the size of my waist, the number in my bank account, my plans for Friday night - it really doesn't matter a whole lot. 

And I wonder why I feel far from God? I wonder why I fall back into old behaviors. I wonder why, despite all the incredible God-moments I've had this past year and all throughout my life, I still feel distant from him. I can tell you this. It's not God's fault. It's amazing to me that, despite the hundreds of times that I've fallen back in to self-destructive behaviors or thought patterns, God still loves me. He still talks to me. He still wants me. And I guess that's where the concept of grace really comes in, because I don't deserve it. 

I've treated God like an old sock - useful when I need to do some dusting, helpful when things need cleaned up - but not something I need to carry with me on a day-to-day basis. No. That would be my iPod or my cell phone, thank you very much. 

But you know what? I don't think God wants me to beat myself up about it. I think he wants me - he wants you - to recognize the behavior, recognize that we screw up (that we're human!), and that he is God. We need him, and rather than finding another reason to punish ourselves or to buy a self-improvement book, we can run to him. The only way to make it through this life truly living is by infusing each movement, each thought, each moment with his presence. A total dependence on him demands a total death to self and, during those few moments when I finally allow myself to live like I believe these words, it's amazing the supernatural freedom, joy, and peace I have experienced in the middle of heart-crushing decisions, victorious seasons, and everyday responsibilities. 

I guess that's what we call grace. I guess that's what we call love. I guess that's the adventure he's calling us to. I wonder what we're waiting for?

three mile moments

I like to walk at the park for multiple reasons, two of which I'll share with you right now. The first, I don't like running. This makes walking much more attractive. Second, when I'm at the park and I'm just walking, I am finally forced to slow down and think and absorb the struggles of the day, the purple-reds of the sunset, the worries I carry between my shoulder blades and temples, the regrets of yesterday. But I've come to realize that something else happens during these three mile moments, when I let it. When I finally just allow myself to focus, I am faced with the reality that despite all the emotions and aches that life hands me, I have been given the overwhelming gift of grace. Sometimes I feel absolutely breathless when confronted with the magnitude of this gift. The creator of these sunsets that inspire me so, the maker of the legs that take me on these walks, the giver of this mind, these fingers, my heart - his love for this one human being is more expansive than an open Oklahoma horizon.

Yes, sometimes it leaves me breathless.

But not often enough. Let's be honest. I should be so breathless that I'm absolutely drowning, suffocating because of this realization. Instead, I wonder how many calories I've burned or what an ex-boyfriend is doing or if I should get a haircut tomorrow. Not bad things. Not good things. Just things. And that's the problem - these things have so much power that God's grace becomes almost an after thought - something I pay homage to in the morning while I scarf down oatmeal and coffee or once a week, three rows from the pulpit. I think you can relate.

God's been using these three mile moments to teach me. He says, "Look at me. I've got this plan. You're a part of it. I'll be happy to clue you in once you slow down." But he doesn't even really say it - just a whisper really, a whisper that brushes my cheek and reminds me that this God who is grand is also gentle.

And I guess that's why those three mile moments are so special. They paint, sing, shout of God's character in a chaotic world that doesn't invite us to walk or think or be. I think God's calling us to live beyond those three mile moments, though. He's ready to push us beyond what we think we can handle and make those moments what drive our every decision. Isn't it ironic that God pushes us to slow down? To let him do his thing? To allow him to be God? Isn't it ludicrous that we don't let him? Isn't it baffling that he's willing to wait?

pieces

This is an article I originally wrote for the March 2010 edition of the Crossings newsletter. 

"Pieces"

Nothing is so broken that God can’t fix it.  A person is never so broken that she can’t be fixed.  I am not too broken for God.  You are not too broken. 

I think sometimes we think that we’ve just messed up too much, told God we could handle it one too many times, or pushed God too far away.  I know I’ve found myself there.  I may not verbalize it, but my actions and my thoughts speak loud enough – “God, I just don’t think you’re big enough to fix me this time.  I’ll handle this myself.”  And I fail every single time.

Sometimes we’re broken because of our own choices, sometimes because of the choices of others.  Whatever the reason, God calls us to run to him with our broken pieces.  David was broken because of his sin.  Paul was broken because of his past.  Esther was broken because of the loss of her family.  And God healed and used each of them.  He took their brokenness – their cracks, their scars, their flaws, their heartaches – and made something beautiful.  David is remembered as a man after God’s own heart.  Paul wrote a great deal of the New Testament, and Esther saved a nation.  Each differently broken, each differently used, and each lifted up and put together by the safe, strong hands of the Father. 

It’s so easy to hold on to our broken past – our broken pieces –  but when we do, we inevitably dig those pieces of sharp-edged heartache deeper and deeper into our palms until we bleed.  And God lets us.  He will let us be as stubborn as we want, but he’s ready to take the pieces out of our hands when we’re ready to surrender.  He puts them together and makes something beautiful again – he “turns our messes into ministry.” 

For me, surrendering the broken parts hasn’t been a one-time deal.  I have to weekly, daily, sometimes hourly, make the choice to let go and let God be in control.  I have scars on my hands from the broken pieces and from the heartache that has come because of my own unwillingness to let go.  Of course the past forms us – of course our scars become a part of us and of course we can’t just pretend life doesn’t happen.  But even those scars, the ugly parts of life, can be made into something beautiful – God is big enough to handle our brokenness.  We just have to let go. 

“The Lord is close to the brokenhearted; He rescues those whose spirits are crushed.”  Psalm 34:18

the land between

I don't like being stuck - being stuck in traffic, in a boring lecture, or in the grocery line. Sometimes being stuck can feel claustrophobic. Recently, I heard Jeff Manion talk about "the land between" and that got me thinking. I think sometimes when we feel stuck in life, we are in that "land between" - that land where life doesn't make sense. It doesn't make sense when doing the right thing seems to produce no results; it doesn't make sense to keep trudging through the mundane tasks of daily living when there seems to be no purpose; it doesn't make sense three months or years or decades after the death of someone special and no one else seems to remember your pain but you. Jeff Manion calls this "the land between" and to feel stuck in this land can be absolutely terrifying. You're totally terrified of always being here. Of always being depressed, of always feeling alone, unsure, afraid, or mediocre. But we don't have to be stuck. This land and these feelings aren't a life sentence - a life of stagnation is different than a life temporarily stuck. In fact, the very name "the land between" would suggest that we are going somewhere.

And maybe that's what is so frustrating about the stuck feeling. You know where you want to be or you at least know it's not here. But let's face it - sometimes there are detours, sometimes plans change, we lose the map. Sometimes life is unpredictable and it is in those moments when we feel so stuck that God gets to be God in our lives - if we let him. In the land between, when we feel stuck, broken down, complacent, unsure, battle torn, or even lethargic, we have the privilege of letting God take charge. In fact, I would argue that being stuck is on of our greatest opportunities for growth and maturation.

I know I have found myself in this in-between place. I'm residing there right now, and I suppose that's why Manion's talk so resonated with me. It's like he was saying, "Sarah - listen up. It's not what's happened that's important. It's not your big plans or fears or wants for the future that are to be your primary focus. It's this place right now. This land between that you hate so much, God's ready to show you himself. Stop worrying and striving and just be, just listen, and enjoy the extravagant blessings of the Master Plan-Maker, the perfect Guide, the only One who can bring you from this in-between to his future promises."

And I'm slowly beginning to realize that it is in this in-between land that I truly have the chance to just let God take care of me. Let's face it - life's definitely not going in the direction I had planned just a year ago, or even eight months ago. But God's promises were for something better than my plans, better than my "Egyptian workload," if you will.

I'm even starting to realize that I can be grateful for the uncertainties and the sometimes very dull repetition of just doing daily life, because I'm learning to give even those small moments to God. It's easy to turn to God and ask him for help in a crisis. It's not always so simple to remember to thank him for my lunch. I would even say that I can - that you can - be thankful for the timeline of the land between that can sometimes last mere days or sometimes last years. We can be grateful that God loves us enough to leave us here until we're ready to move on to his promises. Because, honestly, if we're not ready for his promises, they aren't going to mean much. The land between makes them even sweeter, not only because we have struggled to arrive and come out stronger, but because in our struggles, we have had the chance to form a friendship, an alliance, a total dependence on the Promise Creator.

So God, thanks for loving me enough to let me get stuck and thanks for being there to take control when I'm ready to let go again. Thanks, God, for your promises, but thanks too, for the land between.

night sounds

My attempt to be creative: night sounds.

And I find you in the night sounds. The sounds that remind me of what was, what is, what I imagined would be. And they are only sounds. And they are only memories. And they are only summer. And they haunt. And are sorrow, smiles, serenity, sadness, and really nothing at all.

But something.

Although they are only crickets singing their songs and cars speeding someplace important, they are a strange melody. And I wonder if you are in the night sounds.

And I listen.

The night sounds tell me that you are. Or could be, at least. And so I listen. But the more I listen, the harder it is to hear.

I allow myself to drown in the night sounds.

And they morph from purple-pink sunset sounds to the gray sounds of rainy evening, dark apartments, and cigarette smoke. And then I swim deeper into the sounds - the night sounds that help me find you, that are you. And as the night sounds grow stronger and stranger, I wonder where they will take me next. I have accepted that I have no choice about the destination.

And I think I like the mystery of it all. I never was good at making decisions.

Are you in this next stanza of the melody? In this next deep layer of watery music? Half moons and shooting stars and midnight drives along well-worn highways. Knowing something beautiful, clinching fists, gritting teeth, and watching it die. A disease I hate, but cannot beat, cannot understand. I'm drowning in these night sounds.

Are you there?

And my chest will explode, but there have been worse endings. The night sounds are a canvas covered in memories. And as I give myself to the night sounds - as I suffocate in their frightening beauty, I realize you are not in the night sounds.

I have found myself in the night sounds - free to breath, free to remember, free to let go, free to be me.

beginnings

Today I begin the adventure of blogging. Maybe you'll read this and come back. Maybe I'll only write for myself. I'm convinced that I write selfishly anyway - it fulfills a need for me. This is a blog about the in-between, about the little moments that connect to the bigger moments that make up this experience called life. Even though in books and papers the parentheses that are inserted are just an aside - a whisper or an "oh by the way" - I like to think that it's in these little, unimportant, parenthetical moments that are life defined. And that's all I'm writing about - life. The big things, the little things, the middle, whispered, mundane, strange, tragic, beautiful moments of life. Enjoy. And if you're comfortable, feel free to come back (and share your thoughts with me, too).