I have a friend who ate bread at communion with tears raining down his cheeks. It is the broken, faltering ones to whom He comes to heal. Perfect love begets love. And gratitude. And worship. The path to wholeness starts with His love, not ours.

Jesus saw past a lady’s scandalous action of exposing her hair and kissing his feet, and He saw her love. He knew her story and could have exploited it, but He only briefly said she’d had ‘many sins’ and forgave them right there. His exquisite gentleness and grace for a broken woman makes me weep with the beauty of it.

In another exchange, Jesus talked with a man desperate for his son’s healing. The father admitted he doesn’t have as much faith as he could have: ‘Help my unbelief!’ And Jesus healed the son without demanding more faith from the father.

Those who are most aware of their sin and frailness are most thankful for Love that has swept all the dirt and imperfections away.

I love reading about the ways Jesus cared for people in gentleness and understanding. I’m unspeakably grateful that I don’t have to attain a certain level of perfection before He takes me seriously. It seems that what He values most is an honest heart with no barriers, no pretensions, and He speaks into that heart and changes it forever.

This time last year and the year before, I was heading for Calvary Bible School, a lively, old, little campus way back in the sticks of the Ozarks. My assignment was to teach a young ladies’ class. Two years before that, I was a ladies’ dean there.

While I’m delighted to be in Poland teaching English right now, my heart is tuned toward CBS these days, remembering, thinking, smiling.

I remember raucous laughter in the hallway, surprise parties, questions that come from girls being away from home for the first time, requests for curfew extensions. I remember quickly learning to keep boxes of tissues always within reach because you never knew when the tears would come. There were panic attacks to calm in the wee hours, and cleaning schedules to arrange, and bedtime hugs to give.

Though I loved deaning, I think I make a better teacher. I loved researching and outlining and studying, even if it took more than everything I had to give. Sometimes, in the flurry before class, I wondered why I was doing this, but after class, I always knew why. I loved the challenge of putting into words what I was wanting them to know. Sometimes I accomplished the goal, sometimes I didn’t. I loved seeing the lights go on in their eyes. I heard beautiful, grand dreams and goals, harrowing, heart-breaking stories, and broken, honest, brave prayers.

Being shepherdess to dozens of young ladies is one of the best things that happened to me. They grew me right up, and gave me much more than I could give. They have no idea how much I love them, and how I still call them ‘my girls’ in a protective, proud sort of way.

I gave them everything I had, and in the emptying, I was filled beyond measure. The girls are scattered all over the globe, doing amazing things that make me proud of them. I will always cheer for them and dream big for them. And I wish I could drive down that dusty five-mile dirt road this week to be part of their lives again.

I’ve heard a teacher say that a student’s disorganized desk reveals his disorganized mind. I’ve also heard that genius works in clutter. I don’t know which is right.

I only know that I feel most relaxed and comfortable when my computer is surrounded with a mug, pen, papers, and books, with music playing(unless I’m trying to think very hard). I’m not well organized, but I can always find what I’m looking for among the piles (unless someone moved it). There’s always a point in the day or week when the clutter has to go, which means that no one has to make a path through mounting piles of stuff.

Order. Clutter. Mess. Tidy. I like an environment that’s lived in, not like a museum where you can’t touch anything. It puts me at ease, not tense. I taught an English lesson this week about stress and what relieves it. There are probably as many different causes and solutions to stress as there are people.

A comfortably cluttered workplace helps take away my stress. Whether it’s conducive to creativity remains to be seen.

Maybe it’s the New Year that brings out the silent questions. This is a bridge of time where we stand suspended, looking behind and before, wanting to know the meaning and significance of the past, wanting to know if any of that is connected to what’s in front.

Since New Year’s Day, I’ve heard from various single women, and their questions are voiced in individual, unique ways, but all ask essentially the same thing. I hear them because they are my friends. I am their confidante, not a guru who can see through the mists of the coming year or years. And while no one on earth has any promise of tomorrow, the single woman’s question is especially piercing because she is alone.

How do I know what I should do for the Kingdom?
I live with regret every single day.
At what point do I go out and make things happen? I’ve been waiting a long time.
Should I start college now? I wonder if I should have done it years ago.
This really isn’t what I had in mind for the next step in my life.

I hear the wistfulness and know the ache and have no answers. I only know the Great Alchemist wastes nothing. And that nothing escapes His attention. Nothing.

In Isaiah 40, the poem reads that He calls the stars out every night by their names, and this answers the question–how can you say ‘my way is hidden from the Lord?’

Maybe answers ARE in the stars.