Yesterday afternoon, the word "mystery" came up twice, in conversations about life.  In the homes of two different patients, broken hearts lamented the brevity of each person's journey; each individual shrugged, finally, and said the same thing: "life is a mystery."  Twice, the chaplain and I broached the topic of human purpose.  We have purpose.  Each of our days have purpose.  And this was no ordinary day, though neither is any day.

Event after event has arrived in perfect timing, falling softly during the months of the past year.  Certainly, this beautiful orchestration of life points to a Conductor.  How else would each of us know when to enter, and when to exit?  How else would moments become beauty, and beauty become mystery?

In the moment to moment, of course, we often lose sight of mystery.  This happened to me yesterday evening, as I attempted to extricate myself from a social situation to move towards my next scheduled event: dinner.  Dinner is one of my favorite parts of each day, and I was especially looking forward to this one.  Ethan would be taking me to Kabab and Curry and I did not. want. to. be. late.  I am perpetually late.  My schemes to escape from social situations and endless to do lists have been generally unsuccessful, so I find myself repeatedly begging forgiveness for my chronic tardiness.  Rushing towards my Grandpa's apartment, I called Ethan to leave a message.  It went something like this:

IamsosorryIamlate. IgotcaughtupwiththeHospicepatientsandchaplain. WhyamIalwayslate? I'msosorry. Bethereinafewminutes.

He called me back, beginning with three phrases he tells me multiple times each day (which I have come to rely on as a centering point).  "Don't worry, babe.  God is good.  Look at what He's done in our lives!  When you're on your way to Papa T's place, give me a call."

"Why do I have to call you? I will be there in five minutes."

"You don't have to call me, then.  You're right.  [Awkward silence].  When you get there, open the netbook and read is on the screen."

"Okay," I laughed. 

Something was seriously up. It occurred to me: today might very well be the last day I would be never-yet-engaged.

Papa lives five minutes from my parents' house, where I would be caring for the dog (read: performing ridiculous antics to trick my brother's Jack Russell into going outside, then throwing some kibble in his dish), attempting to get the smell of cigarette smoke out of my hair, and jumping back into the car.  After successfully completing two of the three tasks, I dutifully called back.

"Umm, I'm calling you back to say I'm almost to Papa's."

"Good, okay.  I will see you soon!"

I walked in to my grandfather's.  My grandfather grinned.  "Ethan left you something on the desk.  But I'm not supposed to tell you until you read what's on the computer."

I flipped open the netbook.  Nothing popped up.  I opened Microsoft Word and searched through the most recent documents.  A word study on grace.  Verses from Exodus, Job and Ruth.  Seriously?  I called Ethan.  "What was I supposed to be reading? Nothing opened up."

He laughed.  "Look at the taskbar, and open the Mozilla browser with the Xanga tab."

I looked down. "Ohhhhhhh, okay.  Sorry about that."

Skimming the words on the blog I had grown to love, from the heart of one I had grown to love even more, I realized it was no accident that I had heard much about life's mysterious timing today.  This was no ordinary day.  This was no ordinary December in Buffalo.  No significant snowfall by December 29th.  Warm enough to wear a Spring coat most of the month.  Something was in the air. 

The blog instructed me to the book on Papa's desk.  Ethan will explain what the book had to say:

This is Ethan.  You can tell because my writing is blue.  Blue is a boy color.  So you can rest assured that this is definitely Ethan.  So before I write about the book, pictured above and below, I'd like to pontificate on the events Elizabeth so wonderfully described.  I have been plotting for months.  When I started dating Elizabeth, I prayed to God earnestly and frequently asking Him if she was the one.  He responded clearly, "Marry her. Quickly."  Keep in mind that I heard this before I had even met Elizabeth in person.  Nonetheless, I heard it, and my chief goal in life is to obey God.  This particular action is one that I have been quite eager to obey.

When I first received the book above, I did not know that I would use it to propose.  I received the book as a gift from my dear brother Ryan Porter.  Last summer, Ryan and Chelsea Porter got married, and Ryan gave me the honor of serving as one of his groomsmen.  It was a beautiful wedding, with an amazing time of fellowship and the hand of Christ all over it.  Before the wedding, Porter gave each of the groomsmen one of these red books.  He told us that as men we often have trouble expressing ourselves.  He confessed that though he is passionately in love with Chelsea, sometimes he has difficulty communicating his love.  So he, in a book like the one he was giving to us, had detailed his love for her.  He encouraged us to do the same for the women we loved.  He challenged each of us to write of our love for her and God's love for her, to encourage her and point her to the One who is love. 

I honestly do not know if Porter could have given a better groomsman gift.  I took the task seriously, and I began writing in the book.  My handwriting is small.  I wrote a lot.  As I am terrible at keeping secrets, some 10 pages into the book I gave the book to Elizabeth to read (unfinished).  Interestingly, before Porter gave me the book, I joked with Elizabeth that I was writing a book about loving her.  Turns out I actually did.

At a certain point, the topics in the book changed.  Probably at several points, since it is a long book (80 pages).  However, I realized the truth is my love for Elizabeth will never come close to God's love for her.  His love is perfect.  His love is wonderful, and there is absolutely nothing that comes close to His love.  As David said in Psalm 63, "Because His love is better than life, my lips will praise Him."  I worte some about how loving her helped me see God more clearly.  I wrote some about how I loved (and love) her so much.  However, the majority of the remainder of the book was Biblical exegesis.  I wanted our book of love to focus on the One who is over us, the One whose love sustains us, and the One who put us together.  He is the Great I AM, and He is uniquely worthy of praise.

As the book's pages filled with text, an idea came to me.  The ultimate ending for a book of love would be the commencement of a sequel.  I decided that the last page would be involved in my elaborate conspiracy to convince the most beautiful woman who has ever lived to marry me.  (So far so good, praise the Lord).  

The last page is below:

The last page of this book returned to our center:  Jesus Christ.  Christ has redeemed us.  We have eternity waiting for us.  Our mirrors may be still dimly let, but the light is increasing every day.  We want to see it fully.  Truly, Elizabeth helps me see it better.  She challenges me.  She encourages me.  She reminds me that God loves me.  I am blessed.  The key passage listed above is found in Ruth 3, which has been a theme of our relationship.  Young people sometimes make the mistake of treating their significant other as their redeemer.  I am no Boaz, although yesterday, I played one.  Boaz was a real man, not Christ.  Ruth was a real woman, not merely an allegorical figure; she lived as a real Moabitess, descended from horrific incest (when Lot's daughters got him drunk and seduced him).  Their story illustrated faithfulness to family as well as God's calling on His peoples' lives.  God demonstrated His great faithfulness to Ruth by sending Boaz to redeem her.  Faithfulness begets faithfulness.  Obed, the son of Boaz and Ruth, would become the grandfather of David and the great-great-great-great (etc) grandfather of Jesus Christ. 

So, back to the engagement.  Brief synopsis:  I got Elizabeth to read my Xanga.  This turned out to be the hardest part.  She thought she was picking me up at her grandfather's house, and when I told her to call me on the way from her house to her grandfather's she asked why.  My response was awkward at best.  For some reason, my computer did not open to the Xanga I had written.  Elizabeth called me.  By now, she knew I would soon propose.  She apologized for calling prematurely, and I laughed while redirecting her to what I had written (http://ethanhelm.xanga.com/757939702/dear-elizabeth/).  Papa T directed her to the love journal, and she drove to Creekside Assembly of God where I was pretending to be asleep like Boaz (he had not been pretending). 

For the past 3 hours, I wondered when she would get there.  I paced nervously.  I tried to focus on prayer, and most certainly I prayed a lot.  I sang various hymns as I paced around.  At one point, I called my dad and we prayed.  Waiting 3 hours produced an unexpected conudrum.  When I set up, I didn't need to have lights on; the natural light had been enough.  By 5:30 PM, the sun had set and light was painfully necessary.  I found this out as I ran into a few pews on my way back to the altar.  I found my way to the lights, which were excessively bright.

Jehovah Jirah.  The Lord provides.  A woman came into the sanctuary to tend to some poinsettas at the front.  She saw me lying near the altar. I told her I was there to convince a beautiful woman to marry me.  She grabbed the plants and scuried away.  Before she left, she asked, "Should I turn off the lights?" 

"Actually, do you know anyone who can turn on the stage lights?"

She did.  Eugene, the youth pastor, came in to save the day.  He put in a special setting which provided the perfect amount of light, only 20 minutes before Elizabeth would arrive.

Driving into the parking lot, I noted softly falling snow. The first snowfall, in fact, that Buffalo enjoyed this year.  As I sat in the car listening to the chorus of "Thine is the Kingdom, Thine is the power, Thine is the glory for e-e-e-ever!" I smiled.  God's timing is impeccable.  He orchestrates carefully even the climate and the soundtrack of our lives.

I walked into the sanctuary, and looked around.  No person in sight.  I walked towards the front, to find Ethan lying in front of the altar.   

"Are you sleeping?" she asked, as she fell down by my side with a huge smile on her face. 

I was not, but I was a bit taken aback by her response.  I am typically more absurd than Elizabeth, but that night she was in rare form.

I said, "Let's pray."  

While typing this chronicle (indeed, it has become quite a tome) Elizabeth said, " 'Let's pray' is a big phrase for us; the first time you said 'let's pray' on the phone is when I knew I would marry you."  Interestingly, the first time I said that to Elizabeth was before we had even met in person.  Since then, "Let's pray," has been a recurrent theme in our relationship.

I'm not always aware when I'm nervous, but apparently, I was nervous.  When I finished praying Elizabeth said, "That was short!"  

I was not deterred. 

I asked her to stand up, and she said, "You didn't let me do my part about the corner of your garment yet.  Though actually, we have another Kinsman Redeemer who has spread the corner of his garment over us already (implied: so we can skip that part)."

Elizabeth stood up.  I got on one knee, and then I handed her my Bible.  "Please turn to the bookmark."

"How did you get in the sanctuary anyway?"

"Magic," I responded.

She turned to the front cover where there was a spare bookmark.

"Babe, the other bookmark."

She opened the Bible to Ruth 3.  Her grandmother's engagement ring rested in the binding.

"Elizabeth, will you marry me?"

"Of course, yes," as she knelt down on both knees beside me.

It has long been my feeling that in relationship, equality before God is essential.  I knelt, I told him, so we could be on equal ground while we prayed.  We did.  Then we turned towards the altar and praised God for the good He had done and would do in our lives.  I played, badly, a rendition of Amazing Grace on the piano (which reminded me many things I love have fallen to the wayside over the years, and God is redeeming them one by one. Next up: relearning piano).

We wrapped up the props.  

 I noted the prop checklist and laughed.

We went to the previously promised Indian Restaurant, where the waitress had prepared a glitter-strewn table with a beautiful centerpiece.  I had biryani for the first time.  We left our excited waitress both a tip and a message: I John 4:19.  Then we headed to the house of my best friend (and Ethan's wing[wo]man), where my closest friends had gathered to celebrate with us.  After multiple photo ops (complete with props), we imbibed on sparkling grape juice and gourmet finger foods.  The girls smoked the boys at Battle of the Sexes.  Ethan says the game was close.  But then again, he is also the one who threw out answers like, "with your mouth" in response to the question, "what is the proper way to eat crepes?"

After multiple conversations with our parental units (mine in Alabama on account of Space Camp --seriously, don't ask-- and his in Arkansas, on account of living there), we went back to Papa's.  He was happy to hear that the beautiful ring he had once bought would again be employed on the fourth finger of a very blessed woman's left hand.  What he didn't know is the money Ethan saved on buying a ring (blood diamonds and conflict gold aside) would be going to Samaritan's Purse to help provide for the urgent needs of those waiting for their Consolation. 

He is our Consolation. 

And on this good day we spent time recording these moments for you, dear friends, in hopes that you will find Him to be your Consolation as well.  Immanuel.  God with us.  The answer to life's mysteries, ringing through the ages.

He is timeless.  And He is always on time.  

Every Sunday that I work, I wear a skirt in hopes that I will get out early enough attend church.  Every Sunday, I have come home discouraged, after it is dark and without making it to a service.  Usually I sit in my car and cry for a good five minutes before walking up stairs into an empty apartment.

There are few things as depressing as coming home to silence after missing the fellowship of believers week after week.  At times in residency I have felt so alone that I've wanted to scream, just to hear the sound of someone who isn't pretending. 

But if I don't take any other lesson away from residency, I want to remember this:
in every situation, He is Yahweh Shammah.
He is present.
When I'm busy, when I'm lonely, when I'm desperate, when I'm careless.
There isn't a moment He hasn't shown up. 

He is present.
And He is waiting for hearts to forget their creations long enough to remember, in awe, their Creator.
He doesn't care if we show up in our Sunday best, or whether showing up means opening His word in the silence of an empty apartment.  As long as in some way, each day, we show up for Him.

I hate when people end conversations by saying, "I'll let you go."

Really? You want to get off the phone and then act like you are doing me a favor (though admittedly, some people are doing a favor by no longer talking). 

Ethan laughs at my disgust of this phrase.  He has tried to eliminate it from his repertoire, but old habits die hard. So today, when he called me from the plane that he barely got on by running from a connecting flight, I groaned as he said, "I don't want to be that annoying guy on the phone as the plane is trying to leave, so I'll let you go."

"You've said you'll let me go three times today!"
He laughed. "I love you, babe.  I'm sorry."

We hung up.  Thirty seconds later he called me again.
"I decided I'm not going to let you go.  I'm going to keep you forever, or as long as you'll let me."

I smiled.
I really am half of "that couple". 
Sheesh.  I'm not sure when or how that happened, but I'm super grateful. 

I groaned.  The blasted parking lot toll machine had devoured my initial parking stub, making it impossible to use the chaser ticket (and thereby, to get out of the lot).  Fortunately, over the past three years I had accumulated approximately 30 additional parking stubs in my cupholder (for various reasons).  I yanked one out, and shoved it into the machine.

A day's parking costs $6. 
The meter flashed, "$330". 
Awesome.  Oldest ticket ever (seriously, I had never seen an amount that high and thought the garage never charged more than a month's worth of parking).

Then I smiled, because I remembered the chaser ticket.  The gate went up after the machine ate the chaser, just as easily as if the ticket had indicated a $6 fee.

Either way, the chaser got me out of the garage.  But it felt so much more liberating when I had owed $330, rather than $6.  Which made me think of grace.  And Jesus, asking who was likely to love Him more: the one forgiven little, or the one forgiven much?  (In reality, we are all forgiven much). 

It didn't matter if I had committed a thousand sins in a day, or only one; grace forgives both debts just the same.  And to get out of captivity, I had to use the chaser either way -- same cost, same reward, different magnitude of redemption.  Every day, He gives us enough grace to set us free.  We only have to give up the chaser.

I'm fairly certain my brain contain's a large collection of truisms neatly labeled, "Negative thoughts other people have about me." At the most inopportune times, this box spills out one or many accusations lobbied against my appearance ("junk in the trunk"), attitude ("cranky") or character ("indecisive"). In any given situation, I can recall at least one (and often several) of these negative assessments.

I remember reading somewhere that it takes 9 compliments to overcome the effects of one insult, in the mind of the average person. Perfectionists are, by nature, hypercritical. Criticism is often self-directed, as the easiest factor to attempt to change in any situation is oneself. Only recently have I realized such self-awareness is merely shrouded self-focus that the Enemy of God can use to keep our hearts away from things that matter. Things like relationships with others, testimonies, and our relationships with Christ.

If we want to follow Jesus, we must rest in His perfection and stop seeking to be perfect apart from Him. When our minds are filled with words about Him rather than words about ourselves, we will find ourselves free from the judgments of others.

Yesterday afternoon, the word "mystery" came up twice, in conversations about life.  In the homes of two different patients, broken hearts lamented the brevity of each person's journey; each individual shrugged, finally, and said the same thing: "life is a mystery."  Twice, the chaplain and I broached the topic of human purpose.  We have purpose.  Each of our days have purpose.  And this was no ordinary day, though neither is any day.

Event after event has arrived in perfect timing, falling softly during the months of the past year.  Certainly, this beautiful orchestration of life points to a Conductor.  How else would each of us know when to enter, and when to exit?  How else would moments become beauty, and beauty become mystery?

In the moment to moment, of course, we often lose sight of mystery.  This happened to me yesterday evening, as I attempted to extricate myself from a social situation to move towards my next scheduled event: dinner.  Dinner is one of my favorite parts of each day, and I was especially looking forward to this one.  Ethan would be taking me to Kabab and Curry and I did not. want. to. be. late.  I am perpetually late.  My schemes to escape from social situations and endless to do lists have been generally unsuccessful, so I find myself repeatedly begging forgiveness for my chronic tardiness.  Rushing towards my Grandpa's apartment, I called Ethan to leave a message.  It went something like this:

IamsosorryIamlate. IgotcaughtupwiththeHospicepatientsandchaplain. WhyamIalwayslate? I'msosorry. Bethereinafewminutes.

He called me back, beginning with three phrases he tells me multiple times each day (which I have come to rely on as a centering point).  "Don't worry, babe.  God is good.  Look at what He's done in our lives!  When you're on your way to Papa T's place, give me a call."

"Why do I have to call you? I will be there in five minutes."

"You don't have to call me, then.  You're right.  [Awkward silence].  When you get there, open the netbook and read is on the screen."

"Okay," I laughed. 

Something was seriously up. It occurred to me: today might very well be the last day I would be never-yet-engaged.

Papa lives five minutes from my parents' house, where I would be caring for the dog (read: performing ridiculous antics to trick my brother's Jack Russell into going outside, then throwing some kibble in his dish), attempting to get the smell of cigarette smoke out of my hair, and jumping back into the car.  After successfully completing two of the three tasks, I dutifully called back.

"Umm, I'm calling you back to say I'm almost to Papa's."

"Good, okay.  I will see you soon!"

I walked in to my grandfather's.  My grandfather grinned.  "Ethan left you something on the desk.  But I'm not supposed to tell you until you read what's on the computer."

I flipped open the netbook.  Nothing popped up.  I opened Microsoft Word and searched through the most recent documents.  A word study on grace.  Verses from Exodus, Job and Ruth.  Seriously?  I called Ethan.  "What was I supposed to be reading? Nothing opened up."

He laughed.  "Look at the taskbar, and open the Mozilla browser with the Xanga tab."

I looked down. "Ohhhhhhh, okay.  Sorry about that."

Skimming the words on the blog I had grown to love, from the heart of one I had grown to love even more, I realized it was no accident that I had heard much about life's mysterious timing today.  This was no ordinary day.  This was no ordinary December in Buffalo.  No significant snowfall by December 29th.  Warm enough to wear a Spring coat most of the month.  Something was in the air. 

The blog instructed me to the book on Papa's desk.  Ethan will explain what the book had to say:

This is Ethan.  You can tell because my writing is blue.  Blue is a boy color.  So you can rest assured that this is definitely Ethan.  So before I write about the book, pictured above and below, I'd like to pontificate on the events Elizabeth so wonderfully described.  I have been plotting for months.  When I started dating Elizabeth, I prayed to God earnestly and frequently asking Him if she was the one.  He responded clearly, "Marry her. Quickly."  Keep in mind that I heard this before I had even met Elizabeth in person.  Nonetheless, I heard it, and my chief goal in life is to obey God.  This particular action is one that I have been quite eager to obey.

When I first received the book above, I did not know that I would use it to propose.  I received the book as a gift from my dear brother Ryan Porter.  Last summer, Ryan and Chelsea Porter got married, and Ryan gave me the honor of serving as one of his groomsmen.  It was a beautiful wedding, with an amazing time of fellowship and the hand of Christ all over it.  Before the wedding, Porter gave each of the groomsmen one of these red books.  He told us that as men we often have trouble expressing ourselves.  He confessed that though he is passionately in love with Chelsea, sometimes he has difficulty communicating his love.  So he, in a book like the one he was giving to us, had detailed his love for her.  He encouraged us to do the same for the women we loved.  He challenged each of us to write of our love for her and God's love for her, to encourage her and point her to the One who is love. 

I honestly do not know if Porter could have given a better groomsman gift.  I took the task seriously, and I began writing in the book.  My handwriting is small.  I wrote a lot.  As I am terrible at keeping secrets, some 10 pages into the book I gave the book to Elizabeth to read (unfinished).  Interestingly, before Porter gave me the book, I joked with Elizabeth that I was writing a book about loving her.  Turns out I actually did.

At a certain point, the topics in the book changed.  Probably at several points, since it is a long book (80 pages).  However, I realized the truth is my love for Elizabeth will never come close to God's love for her.  His love is perfect.  His love is wonderful, and there is absolutely nothing that comes close to His love.  As David said in Psalm 63, "Because His love is better than life, my lips will praise Him."  I worte some about how loving her helped me see God more clearly.  I wrote some about how I loved (and love) her so much.  However, the majority of the remainder of the book was Biblical exegesis.  I wanted our book of love to focus on the One who is over us, the One whose love sustains us, and the One who put us together.  He is the Great I AM, and He is uniquely worthy of praise.

As the book's pages filled with text, an idea came to me.  The ultimate ending for a book of love would be the commencement of a sequel.  I decided that the last page would be involved in my elaborate conspiracy to convince the most beautiful woman who has ever lived to marry me.  (So far so good, praise the Lord).  

The last page is below:

The last page of this book returned to our center:  Jesus Christ.  Christ has redeemed us.  We have eternity waiting for us.  Our mirrors may be still dimly let, but the light is increasing every day.  We want to see it fully.  Truly, Elizabeth helps me see it better.  She challenges me.  She encourages me.  She reminds me that God loves me.  I am blessed.  The key passage listed above is found in Ruth 3, which has been a theme of our relationship.  Young people sometimes make the mistake of treating their significant other as their redeemer.  I am no Boaz, although yesterday, I played one.  Boaz was a real man, not Christ.  Ruth was a real woman, not merely an allegorical figure; she lived as a real Moabitess, descended from horrific incest (when Lot's daughters got him drunk and seduced him).  Their story illustrated faithfulness to family as well as God's calling on His peoples' lives.  God demonstrated His great faithfulness to Ruth by sending Boaz to redeem her.  Faithfulness begets faithfulness.  Obed, the son of Boaz and Ruth, would become the grandfather of David and the great-great-great-great (etc) grandfather of Jesus Christ. 

So, back to the engagement.  Brief synopsis:  I got Elizabeth to read my Xanga.  This turned out to be the hardest part.  She thought she was picking me up at her grandfather's house, and when I told her to call me on the way from her house to her grandfather's she asked why.  My response was awkward at best.  For some reason, my computer did not open to the Xanga I had written.  Elizabeth called me.  By now, she knew I would soon propose.  She apologized for calling prematurely, and I laughed while redirecting her to what I had written (http://ethanhelm.xanga.com/757939702/dear-elizabeth/).  Papa T directed her to the love journal, and she drove to Creekside Assembly of God where I was pretending to be asleep like Boaz (he had not been pretending). 

For the past 3 hours, I wondered when she would get there.  I paced nervously.  I tried to focus on prayer, and most certainly I prayed a lot.  I sang various hymns as I paced around.  At one point, I called my dad and we prayed.  Waiting 3 hours produced an unexpected conudrum.  When I set up, I didn't need to have lights on; the natural light had been enough.  By 5:30 PM, the sun had set and light was painfully necessary.  I found this out as I ran into a few pews on my way back to the altar.  I found my way to the lights, which were excessively bright.

Jehovah Jirah.  The Lord provides.  A woman came into the sanctuary to tend to some poinsettas at the front.  She saw me lying near the altar. I told her I was there to convince a beautiful woman to marry me.  She grabbed the plants and scuried away.  Before she left, she asked, "Should I turn off the lights?" 

"Actually, do you know anyone who can turn on the stage lights?"

She did.  Eugene, the youth pastor, came in to save the day.  He put in a special setting which provided the perfect amount of light, only 20 minutes before Elizabeth would arrive.

Driving into the parking lot, I noted softly falling snow. The first snowfall, in fact, that Buffalo enjoyed this year.  As I sat in the car listening to the chorus of "Thine is the Kingdom, Thine is the power, Thine is the glory for e-e-e-ever!" I smiled.  God's timing is impeccable.  He orchestrates carefully even the climate and the soundtrack of our lives.

I walked into the sanctuary, and looked around.  No person in sight.  I walked towards the front, to find Ethan lying in front of the altar.   

"Are you sleeping?" she asked, as she fell down by my side with a huge smile on her face. 

I was not, but I was a bit taken aback by her response.  I am typically more absurd than Elizabeth, but that night she was in rare form.

I said, "Let's pray."  

While typing this chronicle (indeed, it has become quite a tome) Elizabeth said, " 'Let's pray' is a big phrase for us; the first time you said 'let's pray' on the phone is when I knew I would marry you."  Interestingly, the first time I said that to Elizabeth was before we had even met in person.  Since then, "Let's pray," has been a recurrent theme in our relationship.

I'm not always aware when I'm nervous, but apparently, I was nervous.  When I finished praying Elizabeth said, "That was short!"  

I was not deterred. 

I asked her to stand up, and she said, "You didn't let me do my part about the corner of your garment yet.  Though actually, we have another Kinsman Redeemer who has spread the corner of his garment over us already (implied: so we can skip that part)."

Elizabeth stood up.  I got on one knee, and then I handed her my Bible.  "Please turn to the bookmark."

"How did you get in the sanctuary anyway?"

"Magic," I responded.

She turned to the front cover where there was a spare bookmark.

"Babe, the other bookmark."

She opened the Bible to Ruth 3.  Her grandmother's engagement ring rested in the binding.

"Elizabeth, will you marry me?"

"Of course, yes," as she knelt down on both knees beside me.

It has long been my feeling that in relationship, equality before God is essential.  I knelt, I told him, so we could be on equal ground while we prayed.  We did.  Then we turned towards the altar and praised God for the good He had done and would do in our lives.  I played, badly, a rendition of Amazing Grace on the piano (which reminded me many things I love have fallen to the wayside over the years, and God is redeeming them one by one. Next up: relearning piano).

We wrapped up the props.  

 I noted the prop checklist and laughed.

We went to the previously promised Indian Restaurant, where the waitress had prepared a glitter-strewn table with a beautiful centerpiece.  I had biryani for the first time.  We left our excited waitress both a tip and a message: I John 4:19.  Then we headed to the house of my best friend (and Ethan's wing[wo]man), where my closest friends had gathered to celebrate with us.  After multiple photo ops (complete with props), we imbibed on sparkling grape juice and gourmet finger foods.  The girls smoked the boys at Battle of the Sexes.  Ethan says the game was close.  But then again, he is also the one who threw out answers like, "with your mouth" in response to the question, "what is the proper way to eat crepes?"

After multiple conversations with our parental units (mine in Alabama on account of Space Camp --seriously, don't ask-- and his in Arkansas, on account of living there), we went back to Papa's.  He was happy to hear that the beautiful ring he had once bought would again be employed on the fourth finger of a very blessed woman's left hand.  What he didn't know is the money Ethan saved on buying a ring (blood diamonds and conflict gold aside) would be going to Samaritan's Purse to help provide for the urgent needs of those waiting for their Consolation. 

He is our Consolation. 

And on this good day we spent time recording these moments for you, dear friends, in hopes that you will find Him to be your Consolation as well.  Immanuel.  God with us.  The answer to life's mysteries, ringing through the ages.

He is timeless.  And He is always on time.  

Every Sunday that I work, I wear a skirt in hopes that I will get out early enough attend church.  Every Sunday, I have come home discouraged, after it is dark and without making it to a service.  Usually I sit in my car and cry for a good five minutes before walking up stairs into an empty apartment.

There are few things as depressing as coming home to silence after missing the fellowship of believers week after week.  At times in residency I have felt so alone that I've wanted to scream, just to hear the sound of someone who isn't pretending. 

But if I don't take any other lesson away from residency, I want to remember this:
in every situation, He is Yahweh Shammah.
He is present.
When I'm busy, when I'm lonely, when I'm desperate, when I'm careless.
There isn't a moment He hasn't shown up. 

He is present.
And He is waiting for hearts to forget their creations long enough to remember, in awe, their Creator.
He doesn't care if we show up in our Sunday best, or whether showing up means opening His word in the silence of an empty apartment.  As long as in some way, each day, we show up for Him.

I hate when people end conversations by saying, "I'll let you go."

Really? You want to get off the phone and then act like you are doing me a favor (though admittedly, some people are doing a favor by no longer talking). 

Ethan laughs at my disgust of this phrase.  He has tried to eliminate it from his repertoire, but old habits die hard. So today, when he called me from the plane that he barely got on by running from a connecting flight, I groaned as he said, "I don't want to be that annoying guy on the phone as the plane is trying to leave, so I'll let you go."

"You've said you'll let me go three times today!"
He laughed. "I love you, babe.  I'm sorry."

We hung up.  Thirty seconds later he called me again.
"I decided I'm not going to let you go.  I'm going to keep you forever, or as long as you'll let me."

I smiled.
I really am half of "that couple". 
Sheesh.  I'm not sure when or how that happened, but I'm super grateful. 

I groaned.  The blasted parking lot toll machine had devoured my initial parking stub, making it impossible to use the chaser ticket (and thereby, to get out of the lot).  Fortunately, over the past three years I had accumulated approximately 30 additional parking stubs in my cupholder (for various reasons).  I yanked one out, and shoved it into the machine.

A day's parking costs $6. 
The meter flashed, "$330". 
Awesome.  Oldest ticket ever (seriously, I had never seen an amount that high and thought the garage never charged more than a month's worth of parking).

Then I smiled, because I remembered the chaser ticket.  The gate went up after the machine ate the chaser, just as easily as if the ticket had indicated a $6 fee.

Either way, the chaser got me out of the garage.  But it felt so much more liberating when I had owed $330, rather than $6.  Which made me think of grace.  And Jesus, asking who was likely to love Him more: the one forgiven little, or the one forgiven much?  (In reality, we are all forgiven much). 

It didn't matter if I had committed a thousand sins in a day, or only one; grace forgives both debts just the same.  And to get out of captivity, I had to use the chaser either way -- same cost, same reward, different magnitude of redemption.  Every day, He gives us enough grace to set us free.  We only have to give up the chaser.

I'm fairly certain my brain contain's a large collection of truisms neatly labeled, "Negative thoughts other people have about me." At the most inopportune times, this box spills out one or many accusations lobbied against my appearance ("junk in the trunk"), attitude ("cranky") or character ("indecisive"). In any given situation, I can recall at least one (and often several) of these negative assessments.

I remember reading somewhere that it takes 9 compliments to overcome the effects of one insult, in the mind of the average person. Perfectionists are, by nature, hypercritical. Criticism is often self-directed, as the easiest factor to attempt to change in any situation is oneself. Only recently have I realized such self-awareness is merely shrouded self-focus that the Enemy of God can use to keep our hearts away from things that matter. Things like relationships with others, testimonies, and our relationships with Christ.

If we want to follow Jesus, we must rest in His perfection and stop seeking to be perfect apart from Him. When our minds are filled with words about Him rather than words about ourselves, we will find ourselves free from the judgments of others.