I feel as though, through my silence, you wonder what it is that pulses through me. I wonder at my silence as well. But it isn't for lack of words, just lack of shareable words. And I shamefully dip my head, the thing I love so well and so much is the thing that hordes none of my attention of late.

It isn't because there aren't feelings and reflections and secreted hopes and testimonies and things brimming on the surface of me. It is because those things are better left quiet and still; brevity is my new friend.

But I am aware of the lack---and so I give you this:

Last night six or seven of us sat in a familiar living room. We sipped chai and nibbled on biscuits and honey, listened to a friend read Garrison Kieller out loud, with Christmas carols playing in the background. I had my head in another friend's lap and my fingers in another friend's hair. We all closed our eyes, save the reader, and loved the togetherness of it all.

Right now, as I write, most of those six or seven are taking off for a weekend in the mountains. I opted out of this camping trip--Forever Plaid is playing at the local theater tonight and we get student discounts. Plus, I like the quiet of my day. We went camping a few weeks ago, roughing through tornado warnings and torrential downpours. It was the most fun. But some things are better left for memories and not for competition.

In the past two weeks I have rediscovered the practice rooms on the third floor of the Humanities Center and have adopted one of said rooms for my own. The sunlight pours in the window in the afternoon and, if I time it well, the sunset is my companion at dusk. In there I am with the Lord, a piano, and my heart is better at settling.

I wrote about John 9 a few weeks ago. About the man whose blindness was not caused by his sin or his parents, but for God's glory. The Lord is testing that theory on me currently--as I watch the things in which I've rested for the past year break in my desire for obedience. The blindness is sometimes overwhelming, the desire to see past the pain and the plans and the hopes and the beautiful mess, to see the Kingdom at hand. But I remember where that blind man spent his days, in front of the temple, and I keep myself in that posture. Christ's glory is the only thing that matters ultimately and I will be no less than an opportunity for that to manifest.

God Help Me.

The pile of graduate options simultaneously grows and dwindles. I set my mind on six or seven programs, and my heart on one, but the knowledge that my feet will take the path most likely headed in the direction of the Kingdom keeps me certain. I whisper my hopes and He hears me. That is enough for me.

A friend and I sat at a table in the corner of the student union yesterday and I shared my heart with her, my fears of the past few months and the victory that is almost tangibly in my heart now, the testimony and the hurt. When I am finished and I am sure my eyes are glowing with expectancy, her eyes pool with tears as she takes my hands and tells me, assures me, comforts me, encourages me with the faithfulness of my God. Because we know He's good, because we know He's eternal, because we know that even when we can't see which way is the right way, we know what faith tastes like and we like that flavor more than anything else.

Even when it's not popular. Even when it hurts. Even when it looks like there is no return but His glory. Even when it means making difficult decisions and sticking with them.

We've tasted faith.
And there is nothing else more satisfying.