Mo’s wedding was simply one of the most charming, unique, relaxing and enjoyable weddings I’ve ever attended. She colored entirely outside the box— no surprise, right?— and did so with such faith in who she is and how she wanted to start her new life, it was a roaring success.

All the details were totally “them”- from the Airstream food truck that made chicken and waffles to nosh, to the board games spread all over the tables, to the competition Pez dispensers for favors, where guests had to choose between her beloved Seattle Mariners and his Boston Red Sox. (I may or may not have have taken three Red Sox Pez dispensers, hoping to stilt the results). The wedding cake was an assortment of cupcakes, with a tiny real cake topped with flowers and dinosaurs:

This wedding was proof that you simply do not have to buy into the wedding industrial complex to have a fantastic, enjoyable, fun and personal celebration of lives joining. There was no processional, no attendants, no aisle, no bouquet throwing. The ceremony was personal, with handwritten vows that included promises to love and cherish along side references to Doctor Who, Joss Whedon and possible options during a zombie apocalypse. Like I said, it was perfectly them- intimate, funny, open and overflowing with wonderful, quirky love.

I’m so grateful I was able to be a part of it. I’m really happy for my dearest friend, and for the triumph of love in the face of the messiness and sharp edges of life. Things like this need to be (and should be) celebrated. Namaste, my friends. Love wins.

I’m still here, honest! I’ve just been swamped getting ready for Mo’s wedding this weekend (heading out to the airport in about 20 minutes, for reals…) meeting work obligations, juggling kids, had two IEP meetings, writing things for other people… just swamped. I shall return and report— with photos!— when I get back. I even dug out my sewing machine for her, that’s how much I lurves her!

Happiness… Hit her like a train on a track.
Coming towards her, struck still no turning back
She hid around corners and she hid under beds
She killed it with kisses and from it she fled
With every bubble she sank with a drink
And washed it away down the kitchen sink

The dog days are over

Once upon a time, a very wise bishop counseled me that once I had reconciled something with myself and with God, if I continued to worry it, to hold it, to devote energy to it, I was denying the power of forgiveness. Whatever it was that had previously defined me, in handing it over and receiving absolution, it was no longer mine. It was time to move on, to set that burden down and walk on into the rest of my life.

I think I’m there again.

Inspiration is a tricky thing, and the muse is always elusive. Yesterday, quite unbidden and utterly unexpectedly, the sky split open and gave me a downpour of light and inspiration. I hadn’t realized the fog had gradually gotten so cottony and thick around my spirit; but there it was, suddenly blown away by the shocking and beautiful flood of light. This appears to be my pattern with the divine. There are people who seem to carry quiet, constant inspiration with them, on a slow drip like irrigation pipes under straw on a hot summer day. I used to wonder what was wrong that I didn’t always feel the small but companionable whispering. It would make me question my faith.

But I’ve been at this long enough now and had enough experiences now to know that’s just not how the Lord communicates with me. It’s not a fault, nor a shortcoming- rather, it’s a certainly that this relationship with me is personal, unique to me- as it must be to everyone. The Lord lets me go my merry way, and then when I least expect it, he opens the faucet, turns the floodgate, unzips the clouds, kicks over the table, and throws open every window in the house. All at once. For a few moments, I am drowning in light, gasping for breath, spiritually running for every dish and pitcher I can find to catch the downpour. In this deluge, there are answers, prayers, and soul-searing guidance I may have been seeking for months– or years.

Then, just as abruptly, it stops. Like a garden after a warm summer thunderstorm, I am drenched, dripping with sustenance- in the aftermath there is clarity and direction and inspiration and communion. Dazed, I look around, wondering what was caught in the ewers and bowls, and knowing this will overfill my lamp. There is no drip irrigation in my garden; there is down-pour. There is no slow, steady whispering of direction- there are overflowing rain-barrels, providing everything needed for the long seasons ahead, whatever season that may be.

These kinds of things speak of the personal nature of God to me in ways little else does. We have words we use to speak of the divine— I use them myself with varied success, and ply them as my trade— but words are necessarily barriers. For something to be understood, it must also be understood what it is not. For me, this overwhelming sensory experience of the divine, outside of words and for a very brief series of moments outside of time, sears and seals light into my soul in ways nothing else could or can. In the middle of the rain is where my heart is set afire.