Author: naphtalia

I am an artist, a friend, a sister, a mother, an aunt, a creator.

In the Meantime

freshman year, Wheaton College, still applies

Yet another huge year for me was 2001.  I dove into Wheaton College not knowing what I was getting myself into.  I came from a small town without much background in studying hard or studying the challenging issues.  I just wanted to be smart and well-educated and I figured Wheaton could help me out.

But then I arrived to find my classmates already studied up and opinionated.  I thought, “I am doomed.  If I must say something let it be along the lines of a hmm.”  And while I struggled with my head, heart, focus, and desires (like most other 19 year olds), all I truly sought was peace and steadfastness.

We don’t always see peace coming, but it comes.  Mine arrived little moment by little song.  I began to hear God’s voice singing quietly and gently over my bed at night.  This was a welcomed contrast to the singing, jumping, spinning and dancing God I learned as a teenager (Zephania 3:17).  I didn’t relate to that God.  No, I needed God in lullaby form and He knew it.  And in His great love and enjoyment, God sat with me, delivering me peaceful notes.

The handwriting that you can’t read at the bottom is the following verse from God Moves In A Mysterious Way, a hymn that quickly became a favorite in 2001 and hasn’t moved from such a place in my heart:

His purposes will ripen fast, unfolding every hour.
The bud may have a bitter taste, but sweet will be the flower.

I have a whole new set of struggles these days, ten years later.  I have a whole new understanding of seeking peace.  And although I never know exactly what is in store for me next, I know that God reveals his purposes in good and appropriate time.  I have seen it again and again.  When bitterness touches my tongue, I know that sweetness will eventually rise in all my senses.  And in the meantime, Can I call you Father?


I did record this song with R.M. and some lovely, patient Wheaton guys that year.  We ended the piece with the hymn.

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May

May is a beautiful month.  It holds hyacinth breezes, satisfying rains, and clean closets that all send me cascading through moments of progressive reflection.  It was in May that I was born.  In May, I learned to ride a bike.  In May, I was hired for a new job.  In May, I composed my first piece of music.  All my life, May happens as a month of peaceful thought, reflection, and plan-making.  May I steward the beauty.

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There You Are

I was reminded today, via an itunes U podcast featuring Brett McCracken and his colleagues at Biola University, of something I heard many years ago.

At the end of the program, Wheaton College professor Jerry Root is quoted saying, “There are two kinds of people in the world.  Here I am people and There you are people.  My life is an effort to be more and more of a There you are person.”  I know Jerry says this because I heard it myself sometime in the midst of my Wheaton College career.  I am just as challenged today as I was 7-10 years ago.

Oh, how I want to walk into a room and say, “There you are!” more loudly than I could ever say, “Here I am.”  I, too, want in humility to let my coolness dissolve in the presence of others.  Let me be unmasked, uncovered, unknown to myself.  Let my mind stop calculating my perceived presence, my situation, and my expectations of adoration or even simple reception.

Instead, let my be clear headed, sweet heart-ed, and genuinely busied with making someone else feel like they are the only person in the room–the most important person I speak with today.

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Sometimes the day…

Sometimes the day is less about your personality and more about towing the line.

Sometimes the day is about an honest tear.

Sometimes the day is about not saying what’s expected.

Sometimes the day is about sticking up for yourself–firmly.

Sometimes the day is about being okay with running late.

Sometimes the day is about buying it anyway.

Or all of these or none of these.

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May the Road Rise Up

I cornered myself into writing a piece for the choir to sing at graduation.  I was searching for a certain version of this traditional Irish blessing “May the Road Rise Up to Meet You,” but I couldn’t find one.  I then told the choir and the office that we were performing an original version of said blessing.  Oops.  Now my hands are tied and I have to pull through.  No worries, though, I’m used to this kind of situation.  When it comes to music, I always say yes.  And when it comes to writing, I always say, “Why not? I can do it!”

I spent most of today’s after school time in the choir room going over option after option.  My Italian staff book, the one I wrote E’s wedding processional in, is now filled with new ideas that only spur on more new ideas.  Clusters and rhythms–that is my theme.

Now, if I can just dream up (literally while I sleep) a fantastic chordal movement for “May God hold you in the palm of his hand,” I’ll be set.  Here’s to going to bed energized!

I am singing these words for you.

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To Do With You

dance to a country song
go to an ice bar
walk along the sea
lay on some grass
hold hands at a coffee house
play checkers
sit on a bench in paris
talk about our fears
lose ourselves in the presence of Mumford and Sons, or some other group of enthusiastic and qualified players,
or simply record ourselves losing it,
or simply just lose it

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Untitled and Borrowed

San Fransisco, California (c) 2011 JEH

When I am undone, untitle me–
deline me, borrow me from another
idea of me.  Paint me the colors
you see me.  Draw me the shapes I move
through.  Any fabric that covers
or uncovers is fine and will
work out in the end for I
am undone and need to be bent–
to some other form of me–
the still untitled me.

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Come Out

Come out, oh words
buried and struggling for
surface
space
air.

Come out. Stop writhing
upsetting my stomach
heart
mind
peace.

Come out and be spoken.
Come live outside of me.
Come show me what you’re made of.
What you’ve got.

Purposeful?
Powerful?
Emotional?
Harvesting a crop of movement?

Come out, oh words, come out.
I am sick when you rumble within me.

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