A new fall.

Oh, how I absolutely love the fall. I love everything about it. The weather, the colors, the smells of pumpkin, cinnamon, cider and pine, high school football games, mittens and scarves.  And as the fall of 2012 swept in, it brought with it something new to add to my “Things I love about fall list.” A new school year. A new classroom. And 130 eighth grade students learning who they are and what it means to grow.

 What a precious new season. Being a teacher is the best thing in my life this fall. It keeps me busy, it’s challenging and it yields me the opportunity to interact with enthusiastic kids on a daily basis. I love it.  More people call me Ms. Blinn in a week than they do Liz.  I have never felt more like myself.

 

This season has not come without its challenges.  I am living alone for the first time ever, and it is probably the hardest part of my new life here in Austin.  I love it for a lot of reasons, but those that know me well know that being without people around makes me a little crazy. But I am learning. The Lord is faithful. I know that He has purpose for me here in Southern Minnesota and I am eager to live it out.  I still struggle with worry, anxiety and fear. I still struggle with believing truth and letting go of lies.  But again, I am learning. And the Lord is faithful.

And, oh boy, are eighth graders crazy.  I mean that as an absolute compliment. They are so funny. And fun. And sometimes a little lost. But they are all seeking the same thing. They are all trying to figure out where they fit in the world. Who they are. Where they belong.  They, like the rest of humankind, just want to be known.  And I can say with a full heart, what a privilege it is to know them! So unique. So different. So wonderfully precious. It has been so fun to watch each of my class periods take on a different personality.  Even though I teach the same lesson 5 times a day, it definitely doesn’t seem like. They are such a blessing to my life. A frustrating and obnoxious blessing at times, but a blessing nonetheless.  :) How lucky am I?

So three weeks down, and thirty-something weeks to go. Looking forward to where this road takes me next.

"The dream is ended: this is the morning."

The sun has crossed the horizon. I watched it rise this morning as I sat quietly sipping coffee waiting to be called into work. Normally my attitude about being awake so early is not a positive one.  But today, despite my weariness, I was able to see the gift that watching the sunrise really is. What a balm it is to the heart to see the day begin; with renewed promise, vibrancy and joy.  

As I sat doing my quiet time this morning, with the song "You are For Me" by Kari Jobe on repeat, I found an unfamiliar stirring in my heart. One that does not happen often, but always leaves my longing for it again when it passes.  As quietly and calming as the sun rose this morning, so I found myself slipping into a peace of mind that left me longing to go home. I do not mean the small town in Northern Minnesota that I grew up in, but the place I’ll go when my life is over. When all has passed, and I close my eyes for the final time. I found myself longing for heaven. Now for some this idea might seem morbid. Or for others, this may be something that is not unusual for you to long for, as you know that walking through that set of pearly gates is the moment you were made for. 

But for me, death has always been something that causes fear. I will be the first to admit that leaving this world scares me- though I know I will go on to a better one. Don’t judge please. Simply understand that at 23 years old, I am stilling learning to trust. Still learning not to be afraid. The same lessons I will be learning at 33 and 43 and probably the rest of my life.  That being said, my fears do not always keep me from seeing the truth of what an eternity with the Lord will be.  And this morning was one devoid of that fear; leaving just wonder and a longing to be with my God; spilling out onto the pages of my journal and coating the surface of my heart.

I hope you don’t find this silly, by I resonate deeply with children’s books.  They are my favorite kind to read, and often speak into my life far more profoundly than do others that people consider to be classic literature. It is in one of those books that I find the perfect illustration for what I experienced this morning.  One of those beloved Narnia tales, The Last Battle to be specific. It says:

“It is hard to explain how this sunlit land was different from the old Narnia… Perhaps you will get some idea of it if you think like this. You may have been in a room in which there was a window that looked out on a lovely bay of the sea or a green valley that wound away among the mountains. And in the wall of that room opposite to the glass there may have been a looking glass. And the sea in the mirror, or the valley in the mirror, were in one sense just the same as the real ones: yet at the same time they were somehow different — deeper, more wonderful, more like places in a story: in a story you have never heard but very much want to know. The difference between the old Narnia and the new Narnia was like that. The new one was a deeper country: every rock and flower and blade of grass looked like it meant more. I can't describe it any better than that: if you ever get there you will know what I mean.


[As they stared]...it was the unicorn who summed up what everyone was feeling. He stamped his right fore-hoof on the ground and neighed, and then cried: ‘I have come home at last! This is my real country! I belong here.  This is the land I have been looking for all my life, though I never knew it till now. The reason why we loved the old Narnia so much is because it sometimes looked a little like this….’”

It is that country, “the real Narnia,” that I longed for this morning. I think about the idea of catching glimpses of the “new country” in my old world, and I find that this is often true. That here on earth we get to see little glimpses of heaven, like a flash of light in a dark room or clarity in a foggy place.  And those glimpses stir such a profound desire in one’s heart to move on, that everything else around you dissipates, and all that seemed important in that moment fades away.  Sometimes those glimpses bring pain too.  A pain that comes when the longing is so great, and the desire be with Jesus so strong that it hurts.  Again with the children’s books, but Lucy has a moment like this near the end of The Voyage of the Dawn Treader:

“No one in the boat doubted that they were seeing beyond the end of the world into Aslan’s country…
[Thinking of it] Lucy could only say, ‘It would break your heart.’ ‘Why?’ said I, ‘Was it sad?’ ‘Sad! No,’ she replied.”

That kind of pain is not sorrow. It is the complete and utter understanding that while waiting is necessary, it is so very hard.  That Jesus has bound us up in love so powerful; that its very nature is pulling us out of this world.  And tears do come- though they are not of despair.  Instead they are simply tears of separation.  Because while we are here, we can undoubtedly not be there.  

I read one other little piece this morning that I will leave you with.  It was written by Charles Spurgeon, and is titled “The Light of the Evening.”  He gives a beautiful and moving illustration about the passing life of one faithful elderly man:

 “At evening time the Christian has many lights that he never had before… There is the light of a bright experience. He can look back, and he can raise his Ebenezer saying, “Hither by thy help I’ve come.” He can look back at his old Bible, the light of his youth, and he can say, “This promise has been proved to me; this covenant has been proved true. I have thumbed my Bible many a year; I have never yet thumbed a broken promise. The promises have all been kept to me; ‘not one good thing has failed.’“ And then, if he has served God, he has another light to cheer him: he has the light of the remembrance of what good God has enabled him to do. Some of his spiritual children come in and talk of times when God blessed his conversation to their souls. He looks upon his children, and his children’s children, rising up to call the Redeemer blessed; at evening time he has a light.

But at the last the night comes in real earnest: he has lived long enough, and he must die. The old man is on his bed; the sun is going down, and he has no more light. “Throw up the windows, let me look for the last time into the open sky,” says the old man. The sun has gone down; I cannot see the mountains yonder; they are all a mass of mist; my eyes are dim, and the world is dim too. Suddenly a light shoots across his face, and he cries, “O daughter! daughter, here! I can see another sun rising. Did you not tell me that the sun went down just now? Lo, I see another; and where those hills used to be in the landscape, those hills that were lost in darkness, daughter, I can see hills that seem like burning brass; and methinks upon that summit I can see a city bright as jasper. Yes, and I see a gate opening, and spirits coming forth. What is that they say? Oh, they sing! they sing! Is this death!” And ere he has asked the question, he hath gone where he needs not to answer it, for death is all unknown. Yes, he has passed the gates of pearl; his feet are on the streets of gold; his head is bedecked with the crown of immortality; the palm-branch of eternal victory is in his hand.”

Our time in heaven is coming.  And we need not fear, though the things of this earth pass away.  Because his love won’t. His grace won’t.  And as sure as the sun will rise in the morning, so will the Lord’s promises hold true.