Of Course She's Broken

    In John Eldredge's "The Way of the Wild Heart," he makes this curious observation:  

   "I can't think of a young couple whom I've either married or become acquainted with early in their marriage where the young man did not find himself suddenly and often deeply in a battle for his wife.  And these are good people, quality young men and women who love God.  The great surprise is that she is broken.  Often her brokenness will remain hidden until she becomes engaged, or married, and then wham--it all comes out.  Why is that?  You'd think that now that she is safe, now that she knows she's loved, she would be in a better place.  But that's just it--now that she is safe and loved, her soul can quit pushing it all down.  Before she is pursued and wanted, she fears that she cannot be herself or no man will want her.  Now that she is loved, her heart comes forth and with it the sorrow of her life."

   John Eldredge, man.  He really gets it.

   Incidentally, I wonder when it'll be okay for the Church to start teaching on Biblical Masculinity and Femininity again.  I think everyone's squeamish to try it ever since the Purity Culture movement.  But today I'd like to zero in on the concept Eldredge was explaining: 
  

   "The great surprise is that she is broken."  

   I don't have any personal experience to relate here, but I've picked up on it in the culture.  I've seen this in young bucks, real or parodied, who commit to a girl and brag on her to their friends. 

   "Dude, I'm dating this girl, and she's like, awesome!  She's actually chill!  I know!  I couldn't believe it either, but she's like smart and chill!  There's no drama at all!"  

   And then the first time she cries in front of him he's completely taken aback.  Maybe she had a spat with her family, or her best friend blew her off, or she had a hard day at work, maybe someone close to her is in the hospital, or maybe just the quiet despair of everyday life that's been building on her shoulders for the past seven weeks just suddenly brims over at the tiniest provocation.  She starts crying, and the boy does not understand why.  He's wrong-footed and awkward and doesn't know how to respond.  

   I'm trying to see it from his perspective, too.  Guys don't connect the dots as quickly between our steps of reasoning, and hey, I understand the frustration of seeing a problem and not having the tools to solve it.  To them, I'm sure it sounds bizarre when we get mad at their attempts to fix what's wrong.  Communication on both sides is needed in such situations.  The lady will need to patiently explain her line of reasoning and/or more of the contributing factors that led to the waterworks.  The man will need to be patient and calm in the moment, offer comfort, and listen to her explanation in order to understand the "code," if you will, of her thinking process for future use. 

   That's just classic differences between men and women.  Troublesome, yes, but not uncommon.  It doesn't have to be insurmountable.

   But...all the same, I suspect that far too often once a woman shows that side of herself to a man, he feels a sort of grudge against her.  Whether he articulates it or not, I wonder if there isn't usually a sentiment on his part that boils down to: "I've been taken in"?  

   "What happened to the rational, level-headed, chill woman I thought she was?  Was she just lying to me the whole time?"  

   Or, as one man of my acquaintance infuriatingly put it, "All the crazy started coming out--and that's when I leave 'em!"  

   Of course she's broken.  

   How could she not be?    

   If she was lucky enough not to have suffered from a violent or passive father, she is having a terrible time trying to find a good man who will treat her as well as her father taught her to expect.   

   This world has lied to her with its ruthless propaganda and confusing, conflicting messages.  

   "You are strong and independent!  You shouldn't expect anyone to take care of you!  If you want that you are weak!" 

   "A woman can choose to be whatever she wants to be.  But just not a stay-at-home mom.  What are you, some kind of spineless slave?"  

   "You have to be sexy in order to keep a man interested."  

   "You can do it all!" 

   How about the ideals of femininity shown to us?  You need to be tall, have lustrous, perfect long hair, be slim as a model, have flawless skin, have the muscles and flexibility of a gymnast, expensive clothes, and have a cutting-edge career, or you aren’t worthy of love.

   Every woman in America is bombarded by these messages continually.  All the actresses in shows and movies appear flawless, incandescently beautiful.  In her heart she knows she can't compete.  

   That's only the culture, the outside.  Every woman has her own story, things she was told and believed as a little girl.  Each one has stories to tell of rejection, loneliness, and griefs that formed deep wounds on her heart.  All of us have our insecurities, those places of deep hurt that we guard jealously, terrified of them being used against us.  

   Feminists today are particularly good at that.  They hate the weaknesses and wounds that are within their hearts, so they do everything they can to smother and hide them.  It's their way of dealing with the suffering of life.  

   Men don’t have it any easier, either.  Today men are being told that masculinity is evil--anything that even smells of masculinity is therefore, (to use their term) "toxic."  

   “Men shouldn't be assertive--you sexist pig!” 

   “Men should never get the slightest bit angry--you potential rapist!” 

   “Men should never do anything risky--you idiot!” 

   “Men shouldn't be goal-oriented--you greedy, power-hungry control-freak!”

   “Men shouldn't like beer and sports--you ignorant, inbred hick!”  

   “Men shouldn't protect women--I don't NEED your help, you misogynistic freak!”

   “Men shouldn't be chivalrous!--you creep, all you want is to make me feel like I owe you something!  No thanks, pervert!”

   Men aren't allowed to be men.  Women aren't supposed to be women.  And again, that's only this culture we live in!  Who knows what each person's individual story is like?  Maybe he was beaten by his father, or maybe she was abused by hers.  Maybe his dad never spent time with him; maybe her father told her she was fat and stupid.  

   

   Or...what about people like me?  What about us girls--and boys--that were called by the Lord at a young age, who grew up in the church, choosing the things of the Lord over the values of the culture? 

   The truth is, nobody takes you very seriously if you grew up in a loving Christian home.  How do you share your testimony when there is no dramatic story to tell?  What’s worse, how do you share your testimony to unbelievers when most of your wounds were given at the hands of well-meaning Christians? People who loved you, just imperfectly. 

   I grew up thinking that I couldn't go to anyone for help when life overwhelmed me.  I saw wayward kids being disciplined, and decided they needed more attention than me.  When kids pulled stunts or flagrantly broke rules for whatever reason, all the adults rushed to help them.  I knew better than to do things like that, so I just…didn’t. 

   I grew up without friends, often discouraged, feeling lost and adrift.  I felt existential dread about time slipping away from me, and relentless guilt for not knowing what I was supposed to do with my life.  Since I was so used to smothering my dreams and desires, I had no vision or goals for my future.  And I couldn’t tell anyone about it, because I was supposed to have it figured out already!  It felt like asking for help once the deadline had already passed. 

   All through my childhood and teenage years I had recurring nightmares where killers relentlessly chased me and I could barely run.  I would try to scream, but my voice was gone.  I couldn’t fight, either; my limbs were too heavy.  Eventually my strength would give out, and just as they got me, my body would give a jolt that woke me up.  I’m convinced I had those dreams because I felt helpless and scared all the time.  Every waking moment I was plagued by an oversensitive conscience that wouldn't stop showing me my sin in every little word and action.  I couldn’t fight against that. Nor was there any rest, any comfort, or any rescue. 

   What about us church kids who grew up with everyone assuming we were fine?  We can't tell our stories without seeming ungrateful for all the blessings we were given.

   Don’t misunderstand me; I am deeply grateful for the legacy I have been given, and I desire to give back to those who invested in me. I did not try to do the right things to earn some kind of gold status with God. Neither did I obey to keep up appearances. I chose the Way of Wisdom because I loved God and wanted to obey Him. 

   I did not make wise decisions for an easy life or for rewards. I obeyed out of love…and out of fear that God found me as tiresome as I found myself. I just wanted to obey God and forsake my sins, of which I saw in great number every day. I was terrified that I would prove myself unfaithful to His love. 

   There is no escaping the tragedy of life. Even within the very path of Wisdom, protected in church, called to true repentance as a small child, you can still grow up frightened and starving for comfort. Everyone assumes you’re fine. Authorities rely on you to be a good example to others, and you don’t want to let them down. You don’t obey for praise and rewards, and yet you can’t quite squelch the desire to be praised by the authorities that you’re trying so hard to please. You see others being praised for repenting, and even as you rejoice with them, in the back of your mind you wish somebody would remember that you also work hard to do the right thing. 

   That may sound like the prodigal son’s older brother, but it isn’t. When you desperately desire to please your parents, your teachers, and your God, it is right to hope for displays of their approval. Say a child makes a handmade craft for his mom. We wouldn’t call him prideful if he’s hoping she’ll be surprised and delighted by it, would we? 

   The trouble is, most people don’t notice when things go right. They are usually distracted by preparing for the next thing to go wrong. Even the most well-intentioned Christian lets blessings go unthanked sometimes. It is our nature. 

   Now, if I had asked for approval in any way, that would have been prideful; “fishing for a compliment,” was what it was called in my home.  Even if they had praised me (after looking at me askance for calling attention to my virtue), the praise wouldn’t mean anything. Praise means little when it has to be prompted. 

   I don’t have children of my own, but I would warn every parent that you must praise children and reward them in ways that they will understand. I don’t mean bribery.  I mean telling them that you saw and that you were delighted by their choice. I mean enthusiastic words with no qualifiers attached, or hugs, or making time just for them.  Give comfort when they are discouraged, don’t just tell them to cheer up or toughen up.  Show some grace when they try at all, not just when they do it exactly the way you do it.  Whatever their love language is, learn how to speak it to them. Don’t just assume that your top love language will communicate it to them. 

   As it so happens, to this day I find it hard to ask for approval or even comfort.  My default setting is to look for what others need me to be, and try to be that for them.  After all, how do you ask for help when you know most people have it worse? How can you ask for comfort from the very ones who are always stretched to the limit  giving intense counsel to wayward folks in the church? 

   It turns out that I’m exceptionally good at hiding my weaknesses, burdens, and griefs from everyone around me. And I admit, I’m scared about what would happen if people knew that about me. What if they find out how broken and needy I am on the inside? 

   That’s why I’m incensed when boys are surprised when they discover that a girl is broken. 

   Of course she’s broken.

   Of course I’m broken. 

   How could I not be? 

~Cadenza

A Lament for Eternal Summer

   Traditionally Summer is the season of fulfillment, maturity, the height of the earth’s glory. But I have not found it so. 

   Summer is traditionally the season of romance. It was certainly designed to be so. The balmy evenings, the crickets’ serenade, the gleanings of the fireflies within the shadows of the trees. It’s the backdrop for romance. Just never for me. 

   They say Spring is new birth, Summer is fullness, Autumn is the melancholy of letting go, and Winter is Death…but I have not found it to be so. 

   The Year is backward, inside-out, and reversed for me. 

   Spring is the heartbreak of the year. Even as it promises new beginnings it usually takes something precious from me.

   Every spring, while the earth gives birth and rejoices, I am barren and alone. Each animal finds its mate, and the lads run after the lasses. But every year without fail, I am left out of the revels. 

   Each summer reigns in its pomp, scattering its promises of eternity and fulfillment, throwing open the gates to invite every eligible maiden to the ball, but no one asks me to dance. 

   Spring brings pain. Summers are lonely. 

   Autumn has always seemed to be a joyous deliverance. Its particular flavor of magic, its childlike mystery and wonder all seemed to be whispering to me that anything could happen. Change was in the wind, strange stirrings afoot. 

   Autumn is not melancholy. Autumn is joy and abundance. 

   It seems to me that I’ve been stuck in Summer for a long, long time. Weeding and tending my garden; keeping the soil loose and watered. I watch the fruit ripening on the vines, flushed with color. I guard them, I nurture them as they grow. But somehow, the fruit never comes off the vine. I never get to enjoy the fruit of my labors. 

   My heart is not barren. There is a harvest to be gathered in. I have aging wine laid away in reserves. 

   Every Autumn I prepare a feast. I set the table, I load it with all sorts of delicacies, and I set lighted candles at the windows. And every year only a stray guest or two trickles in, takes a few bites, and wanders off again. 

   When the Autumn comes, I yearn to be a part of it. It never seems to come inside of me, somehow. 

   I see now that I have always equated romantic love with fulfillment. Why wouldn’t I? Life is about family, is it not? And as an adult, it is only natural to want to start your own. 

   Even with all that is wrong in our culture, holidays are still built around the family. And the other holidays our culture has “made a thing,” are centered around romantic love. As the Wheel turns, each season and almost every month is propelled forward by the comings and goings of the Family.  What are you to do, then, when you are no longer a child in your family, and unable to start your own? 

   To be a single person is to be continually on the outside looking in. Everyone seems so happy, and you desperately want to be happy…so you try or pretend, or both at once. It’s exhausting and heartbreaking work. You give and give of yourself to keep the fruit from rotting on the vine, and yet you are never allowed to enjoy it yourself. 

   Every year I want to move forward, but I can’t. Love is never mutual. As much as I yearn to love and be loved, no one can awaken love in me. Or if it is offered, I cannot return it. Which is a riddle that baffles my mind as it maddens my senses and enrages my sore heart. 

   “Hope deferred makes the heart sick.” (Proverbs 13:12) 

   I am doomed every year, even every month, to watch people around me passing milestones; having their desires fulfilled. I’m always left behind, sweltering in my labors, imprisoned in this eternal state of summer. 

   Summer is not supposed to last forever. 

“Once you drop an anchor, a boat gets stuck.

And it would stay forever

Just floating on top. 

Watching life pass it by

Just floating on top.

Show me how to climb back on that wheel

I’ll be there, slick as a slingshot

Prepared to get off at the end

And share with someone my spot. 

You can’t have living without dying, 

So you can’t call this living what we’ve got. 

We just are

We just be 

No before 

No beyond

A rowboat anchored in the middle of a pond.” 

(“The Wheel,” from “Tuck Everlasting.”) 

~Cadenza

Nocturne

    Nocturne.  

   There's something uniquely beautiful about that word.  Nocturne.  It rolls off the tongue and leaves a mysterious fragrance in the air.  

   Nocturne (music): "A short composition of a romantic or dreamy character suggestive of night, typically for piano." 

   Have you ever listened to a nocturne by the composer Frederic Chopin?  There's something special about their lilting rhythm that depicts moonlight on water, or of trees sighing in a soft night breeze.  Usually they're in minor keys, which I suspect is what gives them that suggestion of night-time.  They're haunting melodies, but calming and gentle.  

   I intended to make this post about lullabies.  But the more I thought about it, the more I realized that my idea of lullabies was not what they strictly are.  I don't love too many of the lullabies I grew up with, just to be honest with you.  I never liked "Rock-a-Bye Baby," or "Hush Little Baby," all that much.  The lyrics are...weird.  And a little disturbing.  I have some good memories associated with them, but when I think of lullabies, very different sorts of things come to mind.  

   Lullabies are meant to have memorable, easy-to-sing melodies that stick in your mind.  They're written to be familiar.  Not too many crazy intervals; doesn't go too high or too low.  It's meant to be something that you hum slowly while holding a child.  Something you can rock back and forth or sway side-to-side in time with it.  My theory is that humming it can actually be more effective than singing it.  If you're holding a baby, they'll feel the vibrations of your humming through your body, and it helps soothe them. 

   Which of course are not the kinds of lullabies I like best.  I love choral lullabies, for instance, ones composed by Eric Whittacre.  The complex, changing chords, the almost indiscernible melody hidden within layers upon layers of harmony.  I find that more than soothing, I find it soul-expanding.  

   Eric Whittacre's "Seal Lullaby," is a sweet little lullaby, but it doesn't work too well with babies.  Believe me, I've tried.  But I like to listen to it when I'm in bed at night.  

   Another I love is "Sleep," also arranged by Eric Whittacre.  Or his haunting, "Water Night."  Recently I discovered a song called, "Earth Song," sung by a group called "Seraphic Fire."  All these work best with lots of voices singing harmonies, and a tired mama just doesn't have that available at 2:17 am with a fussy little one!  Hymns usually work better for that situation.  Or maybe Enya songs.  I once took care of a little one who liked me to sing "Into the West," from "The Return of the King," when I tucked her into bed each night.

   The only real reason I'm writing this post is simply to say that all the lullabies I like, instrumental or lyrical, classical, folk, or modern; they all have one thing in common.  They were all written primarily for beauty.

   In most kinds of music written today, there are many factors the composers are keeping in mind.  "Is it catchy?" is a big one.  On the radio, new songs catch our ear with an engaging "hook," that is, "a musical idea, or a short riff, passage, or phrase designed to catch the ear of the listener." 
 

   Take "Bad Romance," by Lady Gaga.  What you first hear on the radio is usually the part where the beat first drops: 

   "Rah-rah-ah-ah-ah-ah!  Rom-a-ro-mama!  Ga-ga-ooh-la-laa!  Want your bad romance!" 

    I can't believe I just typed that out.  But you're hearing it right now in your head, aren't you?  That's because it's the hook.  It's designed to catch your attention and be memorable.  And now that I've got that stuck in your head, I'm going to go back to my subject of lullabies, haha! 

   A choral lullaby, a rippling nocturne, or a dreamy movement in the middle of a symphony...the entire goal of the piece is to be beautiful.  It doesn't demand your attention, like a pop song does.  It just--lives.  It breathes, it sings.  It lifts you out of your troubles and sends you sailing out into calm waters.  There's something so refreshing, no, so healing to the human heart to be immersed in pure, unmitigated beauty.

   I can't help but feel that that is how the Night ought to be experienced.  Most children are afraid of the dark, or at least have a stretch of time when they are.  I know I certainly was.  In my mind, Darkness equaled Fear.  I had a vivid imagination, and whenever I had to walk in the dark, I kept expecting to see the glowing eyes of some demonic monster that would pounce on me and eat me.  

   I remember one night when I was about nine or ten, I got up in the middle of the night to get a drink of water.  I wasn't scared to go down the hall anymore, since my parents kept a night-light plugged in that let me see my way.  Also the picture of a strong guardian angel watching over a little boy in bed always made me feel a little better.  

   But this particular night, I saw a light on the stairs.  Usually I never looked down the stairs, but for some reason, this night I did.  I side-stepped to my left to glance down.  

   An icy chill made my body temperature drop two degrees.  I saw a white gleam of light near the bottom of the stairs, standing perfectly still.  I thought I could see a vague shape of a girl in a long nightgown looking off into the distance.  I was terrified that she'd turn around and look at me.  

   As with all my greatest terrors, I found myself frozen, voiceless, unable to move a finger.  I was old enough to think, "I cannot be seeing what I think I'm seeing.  This cannot be real.  I'm too old to think this is what I think it is."  But I didn't know what I was seeing, and that was just too uncanny.  

   I don't know how long I stood there before I realized what I was seeing.  It was the white light of streetlamp outside coming through our living room window and falling on the last three stairs to just about the right height to be mistaken for a shape.  

   A wave of relief swept over me, unfreezing me.  I blinked once or twice and wondered how I could have seen a form in it.  There were the lines from the windowpane in it.  Of course, the longer I looked at it, knowing what it was, the less it looked like anything else.  I shook myself with a shuddering sigh and went back to bed.  

   The next morning I tried to convey the horror I'd felt from the night before.  Maybe I was hoping for praise for figuring it out myself?  But in the light of common day it was a pitiful and unconvincing story.  My mother asked me blankly, "Do you believe in ghosts?"  and I felt so stupid that I never brought it up again.  

   I wish the little girl me could have experienced the Night the way I do now.  I love the glamorous trickery of moonlight, and the glinting stars in heaven are my friends.  Even when I can't see them on cloudy, windy nights, I don't mind.  It makes me want to run into it, letting the winds sweep me away.  Then the stormy ones!  The thunder that sounds like the voice of the Almighty, and the dangerous lashes of lightning across the skies, the pouring rain and the smell it releases from the earth.  And in the winter, who doesn't love a snowy night?  But, oh, the misty ones!  When the whole world is wrapped in a mysterious mantle, and all of Nature is transformed into the land of the Fae.  

   Psalm 88 is called the "Black Psalm," because of its particular bleakness.  Instead of ending in hopeful trust in the God of Israel, it ends with, "The darkness has become my intimate companion."  I think you have to walk through grief before you can make friends with the night.

   I just love Keith and Kristyn Getty's newest album, "Evensong."  It's a whole album of lullabies.  It's my go-to thing to listen to when my soul is in turmoil within me.  It just calms the storm in my heart and helps me be still.  They describe their work as an attempt to "sanctify the night."  I love that.  The idea that the Night can be washed clean of its fears, or at least looking forward to the day when it will be forevermore.  

 

~Cadenza          

Psalm 65

   This is the first balmy evening of summer.  The air is warm and heavy, occasionally stirred by a delicious, soundless breeze.  

    We all used bug spray tonight; its tangy smell permeated our Bible Study as we sat in our circle on the patio.  

   I drove home to the tune of a rippling piano and a joyous voice.  Whenever the voice went quiet I heard silvery cricket song coming from every direction.  Technically I was driving, but actually I was running on the air, running on the music...and I saw blurs of firefly lights across the darkness, like tiny shooting stars.  

   Well, hello Summer.  Nice to have you back. 

   We were studying Psalm 65 tonight, which I've read before.  But I've never seen it as an individual Psalm, if you know what I mean.  I'm familiar with the Psalms' terminology, and its refrains and themes.  But before tonight if you asked me what Psalm 65 was about, I wouldn't have had the foggiest idea.

   Psalm 65 is a sweet psalm of praise, one that is mostly about extolling God's abundant favor to men.  The first four verses establish that He is the God who hears us when we pray; that He is both willing and able to answer us.  We spent a good deal of time talking over these first verses, but I'm not going to attempt to retell all our discussion.

   No, what struck me tonight was in verses 8-13.  It's a poetic, glowing description of the world He has made and orders by His hand:

   "...You make the dawn and the sunset shout for joy.  

   You visit the earth and cause it to overflow; You greatly enrich it; the stream of God is full of water; You prepare their grain, for thus You provide the earth.

   You water its furrows abundantly, You settle its ridges, You soften it with showers, You bless its growth.

   You have crowned the year with Your bounty, and Your paths drip with fatness,

   The pastures of the wilderness drip, and the hills gird themselves with rejoicing,

   The meadows are clothed with flocks, and the valleys are covered with grain; They shout for joy, yes, they sing."  

 

   One of the personal ways my Father speaks to my heart is through His Creation.  Yet I was aware of a strange disconnect between myself and the friends around me.  I said nothing because their discussion was beautiful and useful; it was focused on God and His deeds, and why He Himself is far better to seek than the mere blessings from His hands.  

   I couldn't believe I'd never paid attention to those poetic verses before.  I could see each as a vibrant picture in my mind.  Just picturing the rain-washed fields, the golden waves of grain before the wind, the miracle of tiny green shoots pushing through the loose, rich soil--I could feel my heart swelling with admiration, and brimming over in delight.  

   Oh, it is a metaphor for God's spiritual blessings, no doubt.  But...God makes things grow, and that provides the food for our table.  It's more than a metaphor, it is part of our everyday life!

   I wanted to speak up, but what could I say?  Go off into a poetic rhapsody of my own about the marvel and mystery of nature?  That would hardly be helpful.  It might sound unhinged, or worse, that I was too preoccupied with nature to give God glory.  I just wanted to give God glory by showing them a new perspective on how He provides for us in His earth! 

   I started wondering why we are so disenchanted with this sort of imagery.  Why is it so very easy to dwell on the metaphor, or rather, one-half of the metaphor?  Surely something is lost when we can only dwell on one side of a metaphor. 

   The original audience would have been delighted at this imagery.  Grain meant life and food, and hope for next year.  They were tied to the land, they worked the land.  How do we experience food?  Well, we go to the store.  Maybe we are delighted by the piles of produce in their crates.  We see bread and cheese and milk and eggs sealed in plastic or styrofoam.  And we see these in displays of plastic and glass, in an indoor, air-conditioned, man-built building.  Ah...now it begins to make sense.  

   We experience the delight of hot water from our taps and shower heads.  We experience the delightful plunge of cold water in man-made swimming holes of tile and concrete, filled with clean (or at least clear) water.  

   We buy our clothes already made; flocks and shearing, spinning and weaving mean nothing to us.  When we experience the outdoors, it is the brief walk between our air-conditioned building, over concrete and asphalt to our air-conditioned cars.  Then we weave through traffic and dust on more asphalt roads past our decaying buildings and gaudy shops until we get to our own box.  Then we go inside and stare at our glowing screens.  

   We are cut off from the earth, from nature.  Of course I'm glad to have the comforts, sanitation, and mass production that people have worked to build...but all the same, it comes at a cost.  We may not think it in so many words, but we sort of take for granted that "the world," is only what we experience.  The creature comforts, the man-made pleasures.  Nature itself becomes only a jarring note in the familiar melody.  

   Ugh, it's too hot, it's too sticky, it's too *dirty!*  It's too cold, it's too wet, it's too windy, it's too bright, it's too dark.  It's too dangerous, it's too uncomfortable, it's too fill-in-the-blank.  Sound familiar?  

   The loss is great when we retreat from God's nature.  We lose touch with our bodies.  Our sense of adventure languishes within us; suppressed, but never gone.  In our increasingly digital age, we are losing interest in real skills, real tangible things that we can touch, taste, and smell, not just see and hear. 

   What's perhaps even worse is that we lose our hunger for beauty.  Nothing we humans invent can come close to a breathtaking sunset.  Let me tell you something: God is beautiful, and He only creates beautiful things.  God's creation is not primarily functional, it is primarily beautiful!  It's dangerous, to be sure; but so is God until you get to know Him. 

   As odd as it may sound--put down the phone for a bit.  Go walk in nature.  Breathe in the smell of the trees, the grass.  Listen to the creek and the songbirds.  Watch the clouds for a while and just think.  Close your eyes and quiet your heart.  Notice the beauty around you and let yourself be delighted by it.  It will be good for your soul, I promise.  Talk to God and ask Him to meet with you, to speak to your soul as you walk.  Who knows?  He loves to answer, and He wants to hear.  Anything could happen.

   I don't know exactly what my mission in life is, but I do know that wherever I go, part of it will always be re-enchanting people to the beauty and wonders all around us.                  

 

 ~Cadenza