Milan

Every city is different, and its markedly true of European cities. They have an internal culture all their own, which I find fascinating, but also difficult to acclimate to. Just as I think I'm getting the hang of a city, we are off to a new one, and I have to adjust again.

Milan is a BIG city, with lots of modern aspects because of all the high fashion and expensive shops. We were nearly murdered by taxis (ones we were IN and ones surrounding us) and buses and motorcycles seemed to appear out of nowhere right as we were attempting to cross streets.

We did manage to wander through the oldest mall in Italy, taking in the array of high end store fronts, and then leaving to hunt for a bargain shop. We ended up buying nothing...because we are weighed down with extra things already. Wait...I take it back, we bought things...we bought food, and we are absolutely weighed down by that. (insert frowning face here)

We've come to expect the soaring beauty of the buildings and churches and plazas in Italy, and we were not disappointed in Milan. There is so much history here. I swear, it speaks to me, even over the roar of traffic and throngs of people.

The Manza race track was a surprise. The oldest Formula One track in the world, and the second oldest race track in the world...I guess made me anticipate buildings and established borders. Instead...it seemed the entire village was constructed the day before, amid trees in a park outside town. Tents were randomly spread over miles of forest, with dirt paths navigating between them. And because it had rained the day before, the dirt had become mud. The seats were all bleachers, crammed together tightly. The toilets were all portable as well, and when we arrived in the complex (5 hours before the race) they were already out of toilet paper. Ashley and I finally found a couple stalls with partial rolls, and we took advantage of our chance to stash extra in our purses. Which was lucky, because we never saw another stitch of TP the whole day. The boys had it way easier, as in Europe its totally acceptable to urinate in the woods, against the side of a building, in the middle of the wide open...wherever. This phenomenon had me wrinkling my nose in horror at the multiple, visible, peeing men everywhere I looked...all day long. It also added to the adventure of navigating the mud, which may or may not have been combined with random strangers' urine.

My favorite part of the culture of Milan is that everyone, EVERYONE, sits down at a curbside cafe for appetizers and drinks, conversation and relaxation, beginning at the 5 o'clock hour and continuing until supper time, around 8. We found a lovely spot on the main square, with a perfect view of the Milan Cathedral, and we slipped right into that particular cultural experience. People watching is always one of my favorite things, and its even better in other countries.

It's early in the morning now, and we are sitting in the airport, bags checked, extra bags (loaded with souvenirs) sitting beside us, extra pounds from all the pasta and bread we've eaten sitting ON us, waiting to board our flight. A brief layover in Madrid, and then we will cross the ocean, heading home. We have had a fantastic adventure, mouth watering food, beautiful views at every turn, and lots of bonding time in tiny taxis. We are glad to be returning to our world. Not because the countries of the world aren't wonderful. They are. But our sweet little babies await us, and we can barely contain our excitement to hold them and kiss them and hug them and inhale their scent.

Ashley and I finally, finally, ate a croissant and marked it off our list of things to experience in Europe. The boys say it was at least our 50th croissant...but we don't remember it that way...

I'm thankful that Italy and France welcomed us with warmth and excitement.

I'm MORE thankful that our people await us on the other side of the ocean.

Florence

My first thought about Florence, after we exited our train and maneuvered through the masses of people and luggage and made our way out onto the taxi platform...was "Dear Lord, its humid here. My hair is going to be gigantic."

Situated in a valley between two mountainous areas, the atmosphere holds a great deal of moisture. Up to 85% humidity is not uncommon. I am pleased to report that my hair soaked up at least 15% of it while we toured the city. You're welcome, Florence.

As I have come to expect from Italian cities (and cities of the world in general) Florence had a very distinct atmosphere. It had a big city vibe in some ways, with lots of traffic and throngs of people. But also, in the old, historical section of the city, where we were staying and spent almost all of our time, there are so many old buildings and marble statues that they start to all look the same. Art and architecture are the things this city is famous for. And, of course, food and wine, as it is the capital of the Tuscany region.

As we wandered, I would say "What is THIS amazing building?" (expecting it to be something famous and unlike anything else...) And then we would discover it was a museum, and we would take in its lovely renaissance architecture, and move on. After the 3rd of 4th time this exact same thing happened...I changed my approach. I began, instead, to count how many different museums we passed as we explored the old city. I am pleased to tell all of you that we laid eyes on 12 museums in the 2.5 days we were in Florence. I feel that keeping track of it was brain power well spent.

In addition to soaking up some of the humid air, my hair also received an original Florentine treatment, designed to instantly moisturize and perfume the strands...and by that, I mean...a bird pooped in my hair while we were exploring the old, original bridge crossing the river.

Not just a little bit of poop, either. It was a giant PLOP that soaked into my hair and onto my shoulder. Of course, we hadn't yet checked into our hotel room, so I had nowhere to go to wash it out. Instead, we stole some napkins from a street cafe, and I handed them to Heath to clean me up.

He barely kept from throwing up (eye roll) so Ashley took over picking the pellets out of my rapidly growing mane.

I have now developed a fear of birds.

Nature has been toying with us this trip, for sure. Ashley got stung by a bee in France, I got pooped on by a bird in Italy...and we were rained on in Cinque Terre.

But, oh my, how different that part of the Italian landscape was from the bustling cities we have stayed in.

It took 2 hours to drive from Florence to the coast, and as we went, we passed through several different regions of the country. Each one is known for a different specialty of food or wine or natural materials. For miles and miles we drove past nurseries, with rows upon rows of different trees, grown there due to the high volume of rainfall and then shipped all over Italy. Then, almost as soon as we entered a new region, the fields changed, housing grapes or olives. And then again, a new region, with many textile factories. Then we entered a mountainous region, and our guide pointed out a set of tall, white peaks nearby.

"This is not snow," he told us, then asked if we knew what it was. We were stunned, because anyone would immediately consider them snow capped mountains.

"The town is the town of Carrera," he hinted...and we blinked, not understanding. "The white you see is Carrera marble. It is only found here."

You've never seen anything like it. Actually, that's not true. If you've seen snowy mountains, you have seen something like it. But this was MARBLE. An entire mountain range of marble. Unbelievable.

The 5 tiny towns that make up the Cinque Terre region were charming, picturesque, adorable. We were amazed by the fact that they terraced gardens and buildings were built into the side of sheer rock mountains. And all of the planting and harvesting and working was done by hands and feet and backs, no matter how young or old. It had to be grueling work. And after everything was built, the grueling work continued. The people who live in that area work from morning till night, just to sustain their way of life. They produce wine and olive oil, they grow lemons and figs and prickly pears, and they fish, pushing their boats by hand down and up the precarious dock, and through the winding, steep streets, every time they want to use them. With such small space, and so much work that is required for everything they do, they don't have enough of the wine or olive oil or lemons available to sell it outside the region. If you want to taste it, you have to visit the towns and eat at the cafes. And so we did.

I can't describe how charming we found it, to sit down to a meal made entirely of things grown on the surrounding hills. It was my favorite Italian experience so far. And I've seen and done a LOT of really cool things here.

We climbed more stairs here, because we are eating so much pasta and bread that we keep looking for things to do to burn them off. (That last part is a lie. We ARE eating all the carbs, but we are only burning them off because their are very few elevators, and none of them were installed in the old structures we are touring.) Another 400+ steps to look out over Florence from the top of the Duomo (dome). It was oppressively hot. As in, Ashley and I are considering burning the undergarments we wore that day. My hair did its part to soak up the moisture...but we still sweat puddles onto the stone steps. The view from the top was magic, as all the elevated views have been.

The statue of David did not disappoint either. People with any artistic ability amaze me, as I have NONE. Seeing the famous art of the world makes me feel a lot more cultured, even if I know deep down I'm just a little old country girl who gets a daily hankering for sweet tea and bare feet.

Now, we can say were are country folk who have laid eyes, in person, on a few of the art world's masterpieces.

It's off to Milan now, but only for a short bit of touring. Tomorrow is the Manza Formula One race, so this evening will be our only chance to look for discount shopping. "Is there a Ross, dress for less, in Milan?" Ashley asked. And there is, in fact, a discount store. I'm not sure that the retailers of Milan have the same idea as us about what price is considered a discount...I'll keep you posted.

Arrivederci for now!

Venice

Sigh...

You know how you've done something or been somewhere, and you came away with the most perfect recollection...and then you planned to go back, and you were a little bit worried that the reality wouldn't live up to the memories you had?

I am pleased to say that Venice has lived up to all my memories.

There is nowhere in the world like Venice. I am sure you've heard that, but once you've been...you'll know its true. 

I have written a blog about this city before, with all of the art and culture and beauty mixed with old world buildings and canals, and all of that was still magical.

The food...oooo, the food. Homemade pasta, pizza and gelato on every other corner, all more delicious than the last corner. As we had already decided, Ashley and I set out to try as many different kinds of pasta as we could while here. We have marked spaghetti, ravioli, tagliatelle, rigatoni, cannelloni, fusilli, lasagna, and pappardelle off the list. We plan to add to it in our next stops. Even Patrick, who is a self-proclaimed hater of pasta, ate, and enjoyed, spaghetti with meat sauce. He also ate at least 75 slices of pizza...maybe more. 

The vendors are protective of their wares, and quick to tell us, forcefully, that everything is made in Venice, NOT in China. (They pronounce it "cheena.") Several times every day, we were told "All made in Venice. No Cheena." 

We have added to our pile of luggage, with more gifts for our loved ones, and plenty of gifts for ourselves. Italian leather handbags, handmade lace, hand blown glass, local spices and candies, and so much more. 

Tomorrow we leave for Florence, where we anticipate more of the same perfect food and architecture and merchandise. 

The churches..I cannot even explain the over the top beauty of the cathedrals here. I walk into every single one we pass...and I stand in silent awe.

It strike me as something of note that we don't have churches in America like the ones they have here. The people of the Old World knew how to build a beautiful structure, ornately decorated, gilded with the most expensive and precious materials of the time, with walls several stories tall and soaring, expansive ceilings. Its truly breathtaking. But after taking it all in, my eye always returns to the lit candles, each one representing a prayer. 

I've turned those candles over and over in my mind, together with the glorious majesty of the buildings they are inside...

And I wonder. Did the builders think they needed to build something worthy of housing the presence of God? Were they trying to make Him seem more or less approachable? Do the people who come in, and light candles, feel that they can only offer that prayer in that place, because its so truly wonderful that it must be where the presence of God resides?

I have stood inside at least 5 cathedrals since we've been here. And every time, I have pondered the simplicity of those tiny candles, those flickering lights, and the overwhelming beauty surrounding them.

"Lord," I whisper, "I see the glory of You, everywhere. I see You in the beauty of these creations...and I see You in the painted skies outside. Cause me to burn like these candles, simple and unassuming, but lifted before You in faith, believing that everywhere I am, there You are. Will You show Your glory in my life, more and more?"

We are off to bed, to hopefully sleep off the exhaustion of soaking up the wonder of this city. We will drag ourselves to the train station early in the morning, to beat more paths to more places.

And we will take the glory of God with us. Because He is IN us. And knowing that He is as beautiful IN US as in those cathedrals...oh, that is more perfect than even Venice itself.

Paris

Ahhhhh, Paris...

I hesitate to even try and write about this city, mainly because everything has been said, in movies, in books...it is famous around the world, and most people know what to expect when they visit here.

We had read a lot of things, and heard a lot of things, before coming to the City of Lights. So we thought were prepared.

But, I think all things magical and spectacular start out hiding their wonder from newcomers, the way my dogs want to make sure you appreciate them before they warm up to you.

That is how Paris was when we arrived. Windy and overcast, streets all but deserted, more than half the shops on every street closed for the weekend. It was only truly warm on our last day here.

But, we managed to see all the important things. We walked to the Arc of Triumph, rode to the top of the Eiffel Tower (where it was as cold as the polar ice caps (I'm only exaggerating a little bit) shopped on the Champs-Elysees (the most expensive and famous place to shop in Paris) visited Notre Dame Cathedral (and climbed the 420ish steps up to the tower to see the view) saw the Mona Lisa and other lovely art exhibits at the Louvre, and ate dinner at the Moulin Rouge.

Each site along the way was full to bursting with wonder and awe.

The food...ah the food...We began our visit with a list of items we MUST eat in Paris, and I am pleased (and bloated) to say...we accomplished our task. French onion soup (which they just all onion soup here, obviously) duck, escargot (ick...but I ate it) eclairs, macaroons, Crouque Madame (a fancy grilled ham and cheese with a fried egg on top)(yum) cheese (so much cheese...they have over 700 kinds here , we were told) and much more. Also, Ashley and I decided early that we weren't checking crepes or croissants off our list until we left the city...and so we ate one last flaky deliciousness as we waited for our taxi to the train station.

Over all, Paris is everything I hoped, and more. Its bustling with big city smells and sounds and activities. It's rich in history and memorials to times gone by.

It charmed me in a way I wasn't expecting. They take the presentation of their culture very seriously, from food to art to language. The people are decidedly patriotic, but I don't begrudge them...I am decidedly patriotic as well.

We are leaving the land of baguettes and croissants and crepes and all the rest of the carbohydrates now. The Paris train station is large and crowded and swirling with a variety of culture. We are awaiting the arrival of our overnight train, bound for Venice, Italy...the land of more carbohydrates.

We have a list of all the pastas we must try while we are there...and there is an excellent chance that none of our clothes will fit before we leave Europe. That's okay, we don't have space for the clothes in the same bags as all the things we are buying anyway (read-souvenirs for the kids and local delicacies for us).

Au revoir for now.

Freedom

A new city of the world can be marked off my list of things to do. 

I have now been to Paris.

I will write a long, drawling, comprehensive, totally biased opinion of my time here once we have finished soaking it all in...and by that, I mean eating as many croissants and crepes as we can find.

Today, though...today was an experience all its own, and it deserves an entry all its own.

Today we traveled by van to the coast of France, to the beaches, to the place where the scars of war still mark the ground and the buildings and the atmosphere.

There are many such places in Europe. Perhaps the rich history is why I love it so much.

But this place, these beaches and batteries and outposts and cliffs and harbors and cemeteries...

They have a heartbeat.

They have weight. 

They take your breath away with their combination of unassuming country-side and grand monuments of heroism.

Our first stop was Pointe de Loc, the cliffs that were scaled by 225 American army rangers, sent to capture a heavily fortified German outpost on D-Day, June 1944. Looking down, from the German outpost edge...seeing the drop...understanding that those men climbed those cliffs, took that outpost, and defended it against great counter attack...hearing that they were a band of only 90 when reinforcements arrived...the wind coming up off the ocean wasn't as breathtaking as the knowledge of the courage and sacrifices made there.

Then down to Omaha beach, the landing place of the American forces on D-Day. It seemed an almost sacred place to us. Families were walking on the beach, frolicking at the edge of the cold water, laughing and talking as all people do on a beach.

But it isn't just a beach. I could picture the planes flying overhead, the parachutes, the boats, the soldiers...I could see them in my mind, and my heart beat hard and loud as I grasped how far they had to traverse the sand, and after that, steep, fortified hills. I had to stifle the urge to ask the people to stop walking on the sand. So much bravery. So much sacrifice. So much pain. So much that was won because of it all.

We saw Gold beach as well, and a German battery that remains mostly intact. All of it...every thing, was sobering and breathtaking.

But...the Normandy National Cemetery...it left words rising in my ears, to the beat of my heart...

It's beautifully landscaped, even the parking lot and the entrance and the surrounding area. A lovely walk down a tree-lined path...and then you round a corner.

So many white crosses. Over 9 thousand American soldiers, buried there after the D-Day invasions and subsequent months of war. It isn't even the largest American cemetery in France...but the sheer volume of rows of white crosses...I stood, hand on my throat, choking back tears.

I don't have to imagine what it feels like to lose your family member overseas. To not get to say goodbye. To just feel...robbed.

And I swear, I could feel the pain of every mother, father, brother, sister, son, daughter...everyone who loved a person buried in that place...I ached for them. I understood what this place must represent to their families. And so I tried hard to honor them, to take the time to remember what they had sacrificed.

The words kept beating like a drum in my head as we made our way through the museum there, filled with pictures and quotes and information. All the words I have said...they don't carry the weight of words spoken and written by those who were there.

So I will share a few.

"It all came down to this brief day of battle on the coast of Normandy, and, for so many of them, it all ended. For the rest of us, what has been since has not been the same." Captain Charles Cawthon

"You can manufacture weapons. You can buy ammunition. But you can't buy valor, and you can't pull heroes off an assembly line." Sergeant Ellery

"If ever proof was needed that we fought for a cause and not for conquest, it could be found in these cemeteries. Here was our only conquest...all we asked...soil in which to bury our gallant dead." General Mark W. Clark

"And let our hearts be stout, to wait out the long travail, to bear sorrows that may come, to impart our courage unto our sons, wheresoever they may be." FDR

"Some must die so others might live." Winston Churchill

If you've ever been to a cemetery like this one, that holds the bodies of so many courageous, mostly YOUNG men and women...I hope that you can understand the weight. I felt honored to be allowed to visit their graves, and sobered with the thought of all that had been lost...

We take it for granted, the pain and struggle of the past that bought for us so much freedom and peace. We don't remember it every day. Sometimes we don't even KNOW about it.

But today...today I remembered. And I will never forget the words that clambered inside me, rising to the surface with my tears, demanding to be heard.

"Freedom. Is. Not. Free."

It isn't something we deserve because we are...you fill in the blank...It was earned for us. It was sacrificed for, bled for, died for. It was grieved for, and the depth of that grief should never be forgotten.

It was paid for, for all of us. And we should remember.

Freedom. Is. Not. Free.

The Vision

I had a vision this morning.

I know that sounds strange, and ultra charismatic...and it's not like a vision the way we imagine they were in the Bible, lest you tune me out and think "bless her heart."

It was more like a movie reel playing a scene in my mind, directly following a prayer. It happens to me a lot, words from the Lord that are actually pictures in my heart and mind. I guess He speaks to me that way because I'm a writer, and I can put words with snapshots and scenes.

I'm going to try and give this vision words. Hopefully the metaphorical movie reel will become clear as I type it out.

There is a boat out on open, ocean water. No waves, no storm, just calm, gently swaying current, and a strong, stable, waterproof floating ship atop the deep. 

The people in the boat are alert, and actively caring for their craft. A big wind kicks up from time to time, and it causes them to have to work hard, to buckle down, dig deep, and maintain all that they care about, which is all bobbing up and down on the water with them. Its mostly peaceful. Its safe. It's comfortable. Its all they know.

And then, out of nowhere ,with no forewarning, no time to mentally or physically prepare, a huge wave crashes over the deck.

A person falls into the water, knocked overboard unexpectedly, without a chance to even take a deep breath. And they sink, hard and fast.

The darkness of the water is all consuming. No way to know if there are giant, flesh eating creatures around, or where the bottom is, or which way is up. All the person feels is panic. 

Must get air.

Must find a way out.

Must get back to the boat.

Flailing, struggling, trying...and still sinking. And through the person's mind flashes the thoughts: If I had only known it was coming, I could've taken a breath first, or I would've grabbed the rail and not fallen in. I wasn't safe, but I didn't know it, and now I'm drowning.

It seems as if the sinking takes forever, and also that it's only an instant. And then...they hit the bottom. It makes a sound that ripples through the dark depths. BOOM. Silt and sediment cloud up around them as they land hard on the rocky ground.

And the panic has now become terror. No matter how much they struggled and tried to find their way up...they still sank to the bottom of the deepest, darkest water they had ever floated atop. 

And now they will drown. No chance they can survive this.

So, the person settles down onto the rocky floor, accepting at long last that there will be no escape, or quick recovery, or rescue. This is the end of everything. So...they curl into a ball on the bottom of an ocean.

Moments pass. The 'thud' sound the person made as they hit the rock has rippled out, out, out, and disappeared. There is only the sound of their heartbeat now, as they wait for the end to come.

Beat. Beat. Beat.

Beat. Beat. Beat.

Thrown violently from the safety of their boat, lost in unknown waters, sunk to the bottom of an abyss, curled in a ball on the bottom of the ocean...certain they will die.

But their heart continues to beat.

They don't understand at first. How are they not consumed by the darkness, the water, the suffocation? Why haven't they died from the crushing pain of so much pressure? They certainly FEEL the pain. It should kill them. It feels like it IS killing them.

And how are they still breathing? All that surrounds them is water, and liquid cannot be drawn into lungs. It's impossible.

But still, there is breath, and a heartbeat...they have sunk deeper than a person can survive, in darkness and pain and fear and questions.

They are curled up around themselves, waiting for death, almost wishing for it in some of the most painful moments. Eyes squeezed shut tight, wishing for it to just be OVER, one way or the other.

And then, then a realization. 

The bedrock they are curled up on, the very bottom of the place where they lay...its the heart that is beating...it is breathing for them. It is the reason they have not died from the pain, or been drowned by the crushing water, or eaten alive by the terror.

I have been that person. I resonate deeply with all the feelings. The safety of the boat, with work to be done and battles to face, but overall safety and comfort as the prevailing theme. 

And then the wave.

The sinking.

The shock and confusion.

The darkness...so very dark.

The crushing pressure on my chest.

The gasping, the flailing, the struggling.

Most of all, I resonate with the BOOM of rock bottom. And what follows. The terror that becomes inability to fight anymore, that becomes curled-into-a-ball acceptance, eyes tightly shut, waiting for the pain to end, one way or another. 

I recall the moment when I realized that, despite the fact I was unable to catch a breath...I hadn't drowned. Despite the surety that my broken, no...my SHATTERED heart would simply be unable to continue beating...still the beat, beat, beat sounded in my ears.

And when I finally realized that it was the Rock beneath me that was breathing for me, and it was His heart that was beating in my chest...oh, the sweet relief.

In my vision, the person wasn't saved from the depths. In fact, it ended with them still on the bottom of the ocean, curled into a ball, eyes tightly shut, pressure crushing them, pain consuming them.

But...there was breath, and there was a beating heart.

And the word from the Lord is this, for us all: WHEN the wave, the killer wave we never see coming, crashes over us and knocks us out of our boat, and we sink, hard and fast, to the the very bottom of the darkest place we have ever been...WHEN we are torn between wanting to get out as fast as we can and just shutting our eyes and waiting for it to kill us...WHEN we flail and strike against the pain...WHEN we accept it and decide to just allow the depths to crush us...WHEN we hit the rocky bottom, and believe with absolute certainty that this is the worst place we have ever been and we will NEVER escape...

It's there, its RIGHT THERE, that we are closer to the Air, to the Heartbeat, to the Light, than we have ever been before.

But we have to sink to find it. 

Can we? Will we? Dare we curl up on the bottom of the ocean and let our spirits cry out with words we cannot find...and then wait, listening, for the beating of His heart, the breath from His Spirit, to meet us there?

Oh, God, let it be so in our lives. When all hope is lost, when all strength has failed, when we are drowning slowly and terrifyingly...

Thank You that You are breathing for us, and living in us, and that Bedrock is the safest place to be.

I don't know who all this vision is meant for, only that it ministers to ME today, and I hope it does to someone else as well.

When Heaven Invades

I'm about the get down-right allegorical, people, so stretch your minds with me, if you've had enough coffee to allow for such a thing.

I had a moment of startling clarity, a gasp-out-loud realization, just a few minutes ago. It's been part of a word from the Lord, pinging around in my head, for over a week now, and this morning during my prayer time...I suddenly understood. And so I must share it.

It all began with a flood.

Not THE flood. A flood in my bathroom. A significant leak in our master shower that we didn't know we had, discovered after it had been leaking for many days. Then came the demolition men, with crowbars and hammers, and the water restoration experts with their giant fans, the insurance adjuster with his calculator and tape measure, and the rebuild contractors with their clipboards and counter top samples.

In the middle of all of that, we are sharing bathroom space with our three sons, (gross, gross gross)(There's no amount of cleaning that bathroom that prepares me for actually having to shower in it every day.) and starting tomorrow we will be sharing closet space with the overflow closet upstairs (which our daughter has already begun to lay claim to, so she's going to have to adjust as well.)

There's nothing but sub floor and exposed pipes in my bathroom and closet right now. We have drawn up how we want it all to look when its put back together, we have picked out new tile and vanities and light fixtures...but at the moment, there is nothing except the bones of a room, with drywall and sub floor cut out, revealing how much damage the water did to the surrounding area.

Water invaded my home, quite literally. It moved outside the area designated to it, and saturated the carpet and the walls and the tile and the insulation and the sub floor and the joists. And if it had been even longer before we discovered it, the damage would've spread further. 

This week the Lord has been talking to me about allowing Him access to all of my life and heart, not just the obvious places, or the ones that feel comfortable and safe. I've been pushing back, because I'm stubborn. 

"Lord...You're nit-picking now. All of this that You've already asked and done...can't I just be here, like this? Isn't it far enough?"

And He has been kind, and a gentleman, as He always is. 

"I will invade every place you will allow me to."

It's my choice. He will not force me to be obedient. He will not demand cooperation with His Spirit. I have to say 'Yes.' 

I was thinking about that word this morning: INVADE.

And I was thinking about how my home was invaded by destructive water.

And the light bulb went off inside me.

The Lord is asking me to allow Him to saturate every part of my heart and life. The Holy Spirit doesn't want to stay in the area designated for Him. He wants to seep out, into the surrounding rooms, and cause...yes...chaos.

Because the truth is, there are some walls in my allegorical bathroom that need to be moved. Some carpet that is old and stained and needs replacing anyway. Some tile that is dated and really should be busted up and thrown out. There are things in my house that I've grown accustomed to, and learned to live with, that the Lord wants to DESTROY WITH WATER, so that He can rip them out and start fresh.

Oh boy, I hope you're hearing what I'm saying.

Its terrifying, this idea that the water has seeped more places and may cause more damage. The experts have checked and assure me everything is now dry and contained, but still I bite my lip, listening for a leak in other rooms of the house, wondering where the water is trying to get out of its pipes and soak into places it doesn't belong.

And now I'm actually giggling, as this metaphor takes shape inside me. How often do I do that with the Lord? Worry that He will ask me to do something WAY outside the bounds of what is safe and contained, destructive to my comfortable way of life, leaving me displaced and gutted. 

I have even apologized for Him. "I know this is hard, but it'll all be put back to normal soon."

WHY??? Why do I want that? My bathroom was old and NEEDED to be gutted. So too with so many things in my heart. 

Why do we cling so hard to things the way they are, and refuse to allow the destructive flood of the Holy Spirit to saturate, break down, and, yes, sometimes GUT our hearts? It's painful and terrifying, that's why. If we give Him access, if we tell the Water to invade wherever...who knows what walls will have to be torn down, or what fears will have to be addressed, or what habits and beliefs or lifestyle comforts will be called into question. Before we know it, the whole structure of our lives will be being re-framed, and we won't recognize it as the same house at all.

But DANG my bathroom will be beautiful once its rebuilt. All the things I had accepted and learned to live with can now become things I actually like, and chose, and am happy with. 

So, the invasion of water that caused destruction and upheaval and discomfort and is STILL causing those things for at least a month...will eventually be a giant blessing.

Seriously. I'm laughing. Because I have a literal parable in my house, speaking to me of what the Lord wants to do in my heart, and in yours, and in all of us.

He wants to INVADE. Every place, all of us. Nothing is off limits to Him, if we say yes. And often it will be painful, and uncomfortable, and even destructive to our way of life.

But ALWAYS it will be better on the other side.

The Water is waiting. Will you let Him invade?