In a twist of calendars, I'm split between two spaces today in both sharing what I think are some important things. Well, that's how these things shake out sometimes ...
The first, at Deeper Story, about where I stand now on women in ministry:
We meet in the cafe in the corner of the city we both love.
She’s late, I’m annoyed, but we have an understanding between us that transcends, and by the time she’s finally sat down, apologised, and we’ve ordered coffees–I my second–we are settled into the old way of things once more.
We’re talking about Barth and a bit about L’Engle.
She’s still thinking she might quit her job and move to Italy in a few months. I still think it’s a good idea.
When the coffee comes, we talk of next year and the question of after, we consider the impossibility of choices, that we are young, that the dust hanging in the windows as the sun spills through is somehow very like these flaked dreams we speak, caught in a moment of time impossible to cling to.
You remember that post you wrote several months ago?
And, the second, over at Prodigal about being called as a missionary:
I am thirteen at church camp, murmuring to friends on a jungle gym that I don’t want to have to go to Africa and run around wearing a banana leaf.
This is my idea of what a missionary is.
I’ve felt the haunted note for the past week—the bubbling whisper that I only wanted to be Holy Ghost when it was convenience, shiny, easy. Not when the thing seemed hard, seemed the rejection of self, the rejection of a dreamed life too young to be even understood as unlivable.