Flying

Flying gives me perspective. As the plane ascends, second by second, the hustle and bustle of city streets begins to go unnoticed and the traffic looks like a parade of ants. The earth and everything on it looks fake, like I could crush it with my foot. We tend to feel so big, so attached and connected to our own small world that we've made for ourselves as we stand with two feet on the ground. But in the air, you grasp how small we really are. From up here everything looks peaceful...everything looks quiet and still. We are like a grain of sand in the grand scheme of things-

-and yet-

He knows us.

And not just knows that we are here, that we exist, but He knows us. And not only that, but He cares. And He LIKES caring. It's funny, as the plane begins to descend, everything below seems to move more quickly again. Objects appear large once more and the chaos sets in. Although we now feel big again, we know we are but small specks here, with our own tiny worlds amongst a billion other tiny worlds. We go from land to sky, sky to land...from feeling big to feeling small, small to big. And still He knows us. He cares and knows us, all the same.

Fully Both.

He weighed most likely an average of 7 or 8 pounds. The straw from his bed poked his newly exposed skin and it was probably a bit itchy. I’m sure the well-known “silent night” wasn’t so silent, as the entrance of a new little one into this world is never a quiet matter. My guess is that he probably fell down and skinned his knee a time or two. He felt the effects of the heat of the sun on his body and sweat dripping from his brow after a long day of work. He knew fatigue and weariness. I picture him seated around a fire with people he loved, enjoying the conversation and the evening breeze that chills the air and relentlessly rolls through the middle of the small gathering of friends.

…if only the breeze knew the essence of the air which it now carried...

There were times when he reached out to others, but ended up being disappointed in the end. He experienced loss and rejection, probably more than we could ever imagine. At times he was so excited to spend the day with others, but he also treasured his alone time. He needed community, but he also needed the quiet tone of the wilderness. This guy loved a good party. I see him dancing until his feet hurt, singing at the top of his lungs, feasting on delicious food and drinks, all the while laughing from the deepest parts of him. But anger wasn’t a foreign emotion, and he, too, felt the passion rising from his belly in the midst of heated circumstances. He was humiliated more than you or I ever will be. He felt the weight of temptation that was trying to crush him. Sadness was heavy at moments, and the feelings that the tears encompassed often seemed unbearable. He knew joy, and he knew the feeling of wanting to flee. He took on physical pain. He understood emotional and spiritual heartache.

But he also knew love like no human on this earth will ever be able to fully grasp in a lifetime.

Because He was love. Love WAS this man. Love IS this man.

Without this holy night, this perfect act of love and devotion, the details of our lives really wouldn’t matter at all. Our feelings would just be weird emotions making us feel distant from our Creator. In reality, they do not separate me from my Father, but instead, they draw me closer in relation to Him, because He understands, relates, and knows.

I’ve heard it….over and over again. But lately, the incarnation has become rhema to me (in other words, the Holy Spirit has caused it to stand out with significant meaning).

Y’all, he was FULLY human. And FULLY God. I know, it’s a crazy thing to try to grasp and I don’t think we ever will here on earth. But if you ask me, that’s probably one of the most comforting and encouraging words of truth that there could ever be. 

I am an artist.

Today is one of those days when I have to write. I have to. I'm realizing more and more that it makes me feel alive and closer to what I've been created to do.

I am an artist.

Even typing those words brought on a little bit of fear. The Lord has been trying to tell me I am an artist for a really long time, but somewhere in the past 20 or so years, I have let fear suppress the creative in me, the artist in me, and for so so long she has been dying to be let out.

I recently stumbled across a picture of myself at the age of 2 or 3 years old. I had a sheet draped over me, paintbrush in hand, sitting in front of an easel. My grandmother and her friend were overlooking in the background. My painting appeared to be a rainbow, full of vibrant color.

I've always heard how I used to sing constantly, even when I was a tiny child. As soon as I could talk, I was singing, and on key, too. I loved singing and music, even then. I played the piano for 6 years and then quit. And I will say that I was good at it.

When I was very young I loved to dance around the house on my tip-toes. My parents always tell me that they called me "Happy Feet." I took dance lessons as a little girl, and I will admit that I was good at that, too. And yes, again, I quit.

It might be hard to imagine at this point in my life, but as a little girl, I was sassy, prissy, stubborn and strong-willed, and if my parents had the camera out, I wanted to be in front of it, my bossy self ordering my little brother to cooperate.

Fear is the greatest enemy of creativity, and I have had a lot of fear in my life.

I've had so many expectations and misconceptions about art and about what it looks like to be a creative. My perfectionism likes to stick around sometimes.

What I love to do, the way I look at people and the world, the way things move me - all of it points to the fact that I am an artist. And I think the Father has been trying to give me hints for a while now.

The thing I have always been so fearful of in school and HATED to do, is write. Being forced to write something over the years just left a bad taste in my mouth. I would freeze up, staring at my paper or computer for what seemed to be hours at times. It's funny, the very thing that I thought I was the worst at, is the very thing the Father is calling me to press into more and more, even when it doesn't look pretty, poetic, or eloquent. I've been believing the lie that I'm not good at it, when in fact, it's just the opposite, and it's the way that I best express myself and my thoughts.

Some days I have no idea what to write about, and He is telling me to write anyway. Other days, and today is one of them, I have about 20 different ideas that are at war with one another trying to be the first one to the tip of the pen.

But today this thought won:

I am an artist. 

And I love to write. 

I needed the world (more like whoever is choosing to read this) to know this. Because it's part of me embracing who the Creator has created me to be. I would like for everyone to think that I have known and have been walking in my God-given identity, but the truth is, somewhere along the years I lost sight of it. And even typing that leads to such vulnerability that is scares the hell out of me. Literally. Because letting it out, in my mind, means that there will now be expectations. I have no clue what this is going to look like. This is just the start.

Baby steps.

It's about obedience.

It's just one small way I'm choosing to step out of fear and into faith.

...even hitting this "publish" button in about 5 seconds is a step.

He doesn't let go.

I woke up one morning and felt like my “fire” was gone. It literally seemed as if it happened overnight. Like a brick wall just dropped itself in front of me. Like a switch was flipped and I didn’t know how or why. Where was my hunger and my thirst and my passion? I couldn’t read, write, journal, or even fellowship the way I used to just days before. It continued for weeks, this “funk” that I felt like I was stuck in. Deep down I know I did, but there were so many times when I didn’t want Him. But I wanted to want Him. I wasn’t desperate, but I wanted to be desperate. To feel desperate. 

I’m not good at faking it, nor do I want to be, so when a friend of mine, seeing through my held together outward appearance, genuinely asked, “Ash, how are you?”

I quickly changed the typical “I’m good” answer to “actually, I don’t know why I said that….I’ve been feeling pretty shitty lately.”

I needed that moment- to be open and honest and real and vulnerable. This was more important than class. I admitted to feeling distant from the Spirit, not because He left, but I did, in a way. I realized that desires of my flesh and of my sinful nature started to bombard me, and when they did, I panicked, therefore backing away from the Spirit because I felt unworthy. The girl that had been on a “high” for so long (even in rough circumstances) was now at a “low,” and it was scary. I felt like all eyes were on me…almost like it wasn’t okay that I was weak- that I was struggling. My fear of failure, which still likes to lurk around sometimes…okay, actually often, put a barrier between me and my Father because, subconsciously, I didn’t want to approach Him with the truth about what I was feeling and experiencing (even thought He knew it anyway.) I dug a little in the caverns of my heart to discover what I was mad about, sad about, afraid of. I knew that I knew that I knew that Christ is true satisfaction and the answer to everything, but I was tired and weary and quite frankly, I just didn’t’ want Him. My Spirit was willing but my flesh and soul were weak. Because I’m human. There was a war going on, pulling on me from opposite sides.

….and then my brother's accident happened. Life was put on pause and I went into survival mode. Nothing else in the world mattered for those two weeks. It’s as if everything I was dealing with internally was put on hold, some of which became kind of vague…or maybe things where just put into perspective. I think I was finally starting to see with Kingdom eyes again.

….all of this to bring me to a subject so near to my heart: Ireland.

Two weeks after my brother’s accident, I boarded a plane with my best friend to embark on a journey that, even now, two months later, still feels like a dream that sparked in me more passion, love, and purpose like I never imagined it would. 

...to be continued.

April 29, 2013

It’s been 3 months, today. April 29, 2013 is a day I could never forget.

You are never prepared for that type of phone call. You can’t ever be. Bad timing, but perfect, because I got the call the second I left work and pulled out on the busy street only to have to pull right back over to keep from wrecking. All I knew was that my brother had accidentally shot himself with his pistol. In the face. And that he was “okay.” But what does that even mean?! Apparently Thomas talked to Dad on the phone when he got to the ER and told him what happened. I had to get to the hospital. Everything else I had to do that day was soon forgotten. I ran through the puddles in the ER parking lot, shaking and trembling. My aunt, grandmother, and cousin were the only ones there, except Dad in the room with Thomas. I had to find the bathroom, but couldn’t manage to take the time to do that, so I turned to go back to the waiting room, and Mom comes running in, passing right by everyone in the process. I followed them into a room where the officers and detective were talking to Dad. I didn’t know whether to sit or stand. I don’t remember much, but I do know and will always remember the female officer grabbing my mama’s hands in hers and making her look her in the eyes.
She said, “Mrs. Meadows, he is going to be fine. He was talking. He was asking us to pray for him. The Lord was with him before this just like he is with him now and will continue to be. The Lord has him, Mrs. Meadows, he is going to be fine.”
Those same three officers gathered with us in that room and asked if they could pray with and for us. And I’m not just talking some dinner time prayer—I mean they PRAYED, stopped everything, circled up and held our hands, and focused our attention back on truth.
They said, “this is just what we do. We are praying officers.”
Just another one of His blessings to us in the midst of the chaos. Meanwhile, back in the waiting area, we had a whole separate room that was soon flooded with friends and family. The hospital decided that the weather was too bad for them to life flight Thomas to Savannah, so they were preparing him for an ambulance transport instead. I wanted to go back and see him before they left, even though he was sedated. Mom told me he could possibly hear us, so not to say anything that would upset him. I’m telling you, you can’t prepare for something like that. There my brother was, lying helpless and unable to see or talk to me, and all I wanted to do was crawl onto that stretcher, bloody and all, and wrap my arms around him and tell him that everything was going to be okay. But I couldn’t. In case he could hear me, I told him I was there. And that I love him. I don’t remember what I said, but as the EMTs were preparing him for transport, I started to pray, and to speak peace over the situation and his spirit. That’s all I knew to do. I walked out the door where he couldn’t hear me and fell into my cousin and uncle’s arms. I lost it. The weeping that had been held back since the phone call rushed forth with a vengeance. That was my brother in there with bullet wounds in his face and head. Will I get to talk to him again? Will I see him smile, hear him laugh? He can pester me all he wants, I don’t care, I just need my brother to come back to me. Is he afraid and scared? Does he know what’s going on?
All I kept saying is, “I just don’t want him to be scared, oh please, Lord, just don’t let him be afraid. Minister to his spirit, even now.”
Two close friends drove us in our car to Memorial Hospital in Savannah shortly after the ambulance left. That drive seemed to take eternity, and it was hard enough, but I can’t imagine what it would have been like if Dad had not heard Thomas talk. That gave us hope, because he sounded normal. But what was going on internally in his body, we had no clue. Thanks to technology, word spread like wildfire and prayers were going out everywhere, even in other countries. Once at the hospital, it was a hectic rush to try to find out any information we could on my brother…if he had arrived, where he was, if the transport went smoothly, and if he was stable. We just needed SOMEONE to tell us he was stable. Please. Because he was a gunshot victim, even though there was no crime involved, it’s policy that he have a code name, so that was rather annoying just trying to figure out “who” he was. More family and friends started to arrive to give us support and to be our hands and feet and everything else while we were temporarily shut down. Finally, we did get news that he was stable and the first evaluation looked really good. But they still needed to run all of the scans to determine what needed to be done internally. Needing to step away for a minute, I took Joshua over to the side and we sat down in front of the doors to the NICU. I wanted to see how he was holding up.
My heart ripped open when he asked me, “Who’s going to take me hunting now?”

“Buddy, Thomas is! He is going to be okay,” I was trying to reassure him, but not fully knowing myself if that was true.

“But what if he isn’t….” he said. I just hugged him.

More time passed, and the doctor finally came through the double doors. I was trying to read his face and demeanor.
“Everything looks really good….he was really lucky, he may not even need surgery.”
WHAT?! Excuse me?! Were we hearing correctly? He told us that the bullet made a clean path through his right cheek and out his left sideburn. There were no remnants to be found. There was some bruising to part of his brain from where the bullet bounced off his temporal bone, but it literally missed EVERYTHING vital. His eyes, ears, jaw, teeth, and brain. We couldn’t believe it. How?! I can’t tell you how much relief and happiness we were feeling in that moment. Tears, laughter, and hugs where spread around. We took up half of that lobby and circled up to give thanks to the Lord for an amazing and unbelievable report. But it wasn’t all a breeze from there, though….that night I didn’t sleep. The next 72 hours would still be critical as they were monitoring his brain and swelling. Thankfully, we were able to stay in a tiny room they had available for families in NICU. Amazingly, Thomas was able to come off the ventilator the day after the accident, and we couldn’t have been happier, and we know he was too, as I’m sure it was the most frustrating thing trying to communicate with a tube down his throat. I was thankful he didn’t have to write and spell on his leg anymore. As the week went on, they kept moving him “down” in rooms, in accordance with the seriousness of his condition. We continued to shed tears, to laugh, to give thanks, to talk things out, and to just listen. A lot of it is blurry to Thomas, but we did get to enjoy listening to him crack jokes and ramble on and on to us and the nurses throughout the week with the help of pain killers he was taking. I’m so glad we could laugh at that. He did have to undergo some sinus surgery, which was the worst part of the whole thing. It tore me up to see him in that much pain. Finally, after a long, emotional, and exhausting week living in the Savannah hospital, Thomas was released. And again, we were thankful.

I know that was long, but all of that being said, I need to say a few more things:

One.

I know I kept saying it throughout the week, and I wrote a later Facebook post about it and so did my mama, but I need to talk about it again.

God is good.

But not because he spared my brother’s life. He’s good because….IT’S JUST WHO HE IS! And His ways are higher. If my brother’s time here on earth HAD ended, I think I would have struggled and battled with actually declaring that truth. But I know that I know that I know He is. No matter what. I don’t know why I had siblings that died before they could even take their first breath. I don’t know why I’ve had to watch my friends lose their brothers and sisters before their time. I don’t know why God spared my brother’s life, except that He chose to. All of our days are numbered, and Thomas’ had not come to their completion. A lot of people think the bullet went through his cheeks, or took a less serious path, so to speak, but when someone would walk into his hospital room and actually look at him lying there, completely unaltered (except for his sinuses), and actually see the bullet entry and exit wound on opposite sides of his head, they would often just cry, or become speechless, etc. He is just simply supposed to still be here. And I am so glad and happy and thankful. It’s crazy to think of the countless scenarios that could have taken place, but seriously, there was just blessing after blessing after blessing. Thomas was coherent and conscious up until sedation, and was not affected by the immense blood loss at the scene. The girl that was with Thomas at the time couldn’t be more sweet and precious, along with her family. She was not harmed, and neither was anyone else. The bullet made the “perfect” path, with the “right” velocity at the “best” distance. The doctors were wonderful, and his ENT surgeon is a believer and follower of our Lord. Every time we got a report or update, it was always positive. All of this is just because the Lord is sovereign and He knows and we just get to be humbled and stand or fall on our faces in awe of who He is.
Like my mama said, “It’s just so simple yet so profound.”

Two.

The Body of Christ is essential, necessary, and absolutely beautiful.

The number of servant-hearted people who were there for us that week was amazing. Hands, feet, warm bodies and hearts came to sit, talk, listen, cry, bring us food, coffee, offer beds and showers and houses, cleaned our home, fixed and cleaned my brother’s truck from the accident, and most importantly, PRAYED and entered into the battle with us. The second night, the day after it happened, my body and emotions just collapsed. Something triggered it, and all of my emotion seemed to sit on my chest to the point of hyperventilation and some sort of panic attack. I’ve never experienced anything like it. My body and tears and breath were out of control. I couldn’t speak and had no idea who was even around me. I think it all just finally got to me, and anger that I didn’t know was there surfaced and exhaustion was taking it’s toll. Right or wrong, I realized I was feeling and taking on things for my brother that he would soon be facing. I hadn’t truly cried and felt, yet, until that moment. After about an hour of Daddy physically holding me up outside the hospital and trying to get me to speak, my body calmed. Three of my amazing friends who drove up that night came to sit on the floor with me in the empty lobby. They just held me. One on each arm and another at my shoulders behind me. That is what I needed. The Body, holding me, whispering life and truth into my ears and over my mind and body and spirit. They were just THERE, seeing me at my very, very worst and loving me selflessly through it. That is love. That is what I will never ever forget. People stopping their lives for a little while to encourage and support and to give of themselves.

Three.

Relationship matters. And I really love my brother.

I literally sat in a hospital and did nothing for a week. And although I was more than ready to leave, I didn’t want to be anywhere else. If I lost my job, or if my professors wouldn’t let me make up finals (which I really wasn’t concerned about happening) then oh well. It’s something I always remember my mom saying growing up when Thomas and I would fight….”you are really going to be sad if for some reason one day something happens to your brother/sister and he/she isn’t here anymore.” And yes, I always knew I would be and couldn’t imagine life without my brother, but I never thought I would come so close to that feeling so soon. Nothing else mattered in that moment of seeing my brother lying on the stretcher hooked to tubes and covered in his own blood. It’s real. It’s life. It’s not always sugar and roses. My heart swelled up with love that I didn’t know was so deep. (I can’t imagine how it’s going to be with my own kids someday….). Perspective shifts and priorities seem to fall back into alignment in an instant. Crazy how that works…..

I hated the circumstances, but I treasure the moments I got to just sit there, holding my brother’s hand. I wanted to hear his heart, his fears, his thoughts, and to just be there. I was honored to cut up his food, to change his cold cloths, to swab his mouth, to clean his nose, and change his bandage (which I felt I could do a lot more gently than some of those dang nurses). But why does it take something like this crisis to make me WANT to do these things? I want this to be my first reaction, my first thought, my normal, everyday responses…..because you never know what the next second holds. I know we always say that, but it’s true. We. Don’t. Know. And we can’t control it. So what are my last words to the people I love when I hang up the phone? What’s the condition of my heart towards them when I walk out the door? What have I held back or let out that I regret when I lay my head down at night? Don’t waste time. There isn’t much of it, really, in the scheme of things. It’s short. It’s fragile. It’s precious. But there is still plenty to enjoy…plenty of time to tell those people you love them, to speak life instead of death, to really listen, to share your heart, to give a kiss or a hug or a smile, to serve them just because you can, to forget about yourself for just a minute and see what truly matters in life. Relationship. People. Love. Everything else can wait. I’ll admit, I’m far from perfect and I find myself screwing up daily, but it changed me. Being on the brink of my brother’s possible death drew me out of a funk I felt I was stuck in, and pointed me back to the Sovereign One and to His great love and power and involvement in every detail of our days. 

Frou Frou Said It Well

It's been about 4 months since I last posted, and that's a bit too long in my opinion. I've been meaning to write, or at least journal, but I haven't even done that lately. It's weird, I usually let all of the thoughts, words, revelations, etc. build up and then I try to get everything out at once. I'm not sure I like that. One of my best friends just told me that I do my best work when things build up....HA....maybe she's right, but I don't know. 

So here's my attempt to just let the thoughts flow....because I need to get them out so I can see them. This might be rough....but I like rough and raw. Because it's real.

I'm living at home...with my family, once again. How I got here, I don't know the answer. The Lord just said, "Go." The desire that was His quickly became mine. Has my return to St. Simons Island been what I expected? Nope, not in the least bit. Then again, when is life ever what I expect it to be? 

I think that's what makes it beautiful.....

When someone makes a comment about a beautiful day, I believe most of us automatically turn our attention to the window in expectation of a crystal blue sky and golden sun.....sunny with a high of 75. It's comfortable. 

But what about the day it rains? Or the week? Or when every summer afternoon has a forecast of showers? What then? Do we comment on it's beauty?

The rain isn't comfortable. It makes things difficult. Your feet get wet trying to jump over puddles, you can't see through your windshield, your hair gets frizzy, and most of the time, you just don't want to get out of bed. 

.....but there's something beautiful about the rain. 

Some really great memories came from water falling out of the sky. My first kiss was in the rain. There's just something about spontaneous dancing in downpours that makes me joyful. Rain makes mud, which makes Ultimate games more fun. What I thought would ruin my skydiving experience actually made it more breathtakingly wonderful--I was surrounded by lightening and rainbows. 

Hurricanes often make for the best surfing waves.....

So here I've found myself standing in the middle of this proverbial downpour. My hair is dripping. My make up is smeared so my eyes are now black. I can't differentiate between the raindrops and the tears. There's no point in wiping them away because I just get more soaked. I feel broken in every way. I can't breathe. I'm tired of this familiar drenching.....

I didn't expect this much rain in one day...or even in a couple months period. It can be overwhelming...physically, emotionally, spiritually, relationally. It's confusing when the weatherman predicts a sunny forecast and then you walk out your front door and it's gray....or wet....or cold. It's confusing when there's confirmation in your spirit but reality is telling you something different. 

So what do you do in these times? I've found that you keep dancing. You embrace the rain. Yeah, you can be angry that your sunny-day plans our now hindered by the cloudy skies, but you accept what it is, and continue to hope and wait in eager expectation for the brighter days to come. 

The rain keeps me humble. It protects me from getting too sunburnt and keeps me coming back to the Weatherman for an update and forecast. Personally, I don't think I would depend on him so much if it were constantly sunny. Rain washes away dirt, debris, and prepares the earth for sun again. It makes the grass greener and the flowers bloom. So why is it again that we are so opposed to rain?........

At one time in my life, I did drown in those waves that the rain produced. Once you're at the point of taking in that much water, much resuscitation is needed. But, I do think it was drowning that helped me learn how to swim in the waves. Yeah, I've fallen as a result of some shakiness recently, but you know what? I didn't drown. Each time I get up more quickly. That's growth. It's encouraging to hear others confirm my growth, especially when I'm not aware of the extent of it myself. It's amazing to finally be able to see beyond the circumstances....to see that the rain is producing so much rich soil in me that I wouldn't believe it if I really saw it right now. To have a whole new perspective....it changes things. 

So....there's beauty in the rainy season---because it's producing roots that go deep, making me unmovable and unshakable. It's beautiful because it's real and rough and raw and exposing. It's beautiful because it's potential protection from possible disaster, and simply because His timing is perfect in every way. It's beautiful because, "unbeknownst to my hopelessness, God is stirring." So let me count this as joy.

It's beautiful because I'm learning how to play in the mud. 

"I'm a mess."

He told me, "messes can be beautiful."

There's beauty in the breakdown.

november 10

Sitting on the porch in the North Georgia mountains, trying to write, trying to hear, trying to pray, almost feeling guilty for not. I want to make it happen. Nothing is coming. Finally, after battling the thoughts, I decide to just sit. Just be. And it’s okay.  Just be in the presence of my Lover. No need for words, no need for force. Just relax, sink into the warmth of the blanket and breathe in the cold air that chills the tip of my nose. It’s a clear night, moonlight shining through the bare tree branches, making silhouettes against the twinkling sky full of stars. It’s good to just sit with Him. I don’t have to talk. He doesn’t have to either. But I know He’s there, and He enjoys my presence, too. And that’s enough.