Sheer curtain of Salvation.

 "Crying is all right in its own way while it lasts. But you have to stop sooner or later, and then you still have to decide what to do."
-C.S.Lewis


Some people are very dedicated Christians. When they are down or bitter or unforgiving, they take a breath and read their Bibles. They pray about everything and cry and understand grace. Then they move on in their lives of always cherishing Christ with the perfect amount of tenderness because of His sacrifice and great love.

I am so not like that.
I will unashamedly admit to that right now. These last few days have only solidified my knowledge of a flapping bird of misconceptions and denial perched in my heart. I have sat on my hands all week. I didn't breathe; I've been holding my breath since Tuesday. I blush to admit that I don't read my Bible when I'm upset. Call me what you please, but I never could do that. My Bible is not a book I would describe as a refuge. Fiction is a solace; fiction isn't real. The Bible is real. The Bible happened.
Last night I was super angry. It had to do with some ridiculous film in Multi-Cultures about Disney movies and also first grade classrooms and the state of our education system. I was seething. I'm not one of those people who can be complacent about things. I feel nothing or everything. No in-between.  And last night I probably should have prayed very softly under my breath and then come home and read Matthew or something, but I didn't. I ranted and pressed the edge of my palm to my sternum a few times and then I got out The Chronicles of Narnia and binged on vanilla ice cream.
Now I know what you're thinking, she's one of those people.
And I am.
Here is something I've been learning, and this all has blossomed out of Lauren Winner's book Girl Meets God, so blame her not me. Anyway, I have discovered that life is very short and we are fickle. We are also very fragile, but that's a whole other subject. This last week I have gotten into a tizzy over the most menial things. Honestly. For example, I was very bitter the other day because I was trying to work on my memoir of defying consumerism when all that was really in my head was a yellow silk skirt I had seen a picture of earlier that morning.
Fact: if the downfall of men is a lust for women, for women it is a lust of clothing—and a thousand other things. 
I had to go sit on my bed for a little while and stare at my walls and try to understand and not cry. I feel very ignorant of grace. Then I proceeded to get out The Princess Bride and ignore the entire situation. Coping strategies. I think it was Joan Didion who said something like, "In time of trouble, I had been trained since I was young, read, learn, work it up, go to literature." I might have been trained to do that unconsciously, but I think I might have been born to do that. 
Lately I have taken to marrying books. To each other I mean. I started the tradition long ago; I used to just think I was being obnoxious because I didn't have enough time to read everything I wanted to, so I would read more than one book at a time. People called me an over-achiever for that. But now that I reflect on it, I see that my pairings were conscious. I paired books the way people pair wine with chocolate or themselves with a spouse. I liked the unexpected flavors that came together. Some mellow and peaceful. Others snapping and blooming with spontaneity and shock. I think my first marriage was The Count of Monte Cristo and Little Women. Dumas was such a long novel, and I didn't want to lose ground in my new found love of classics.  So I read them both. Mornings were for Alcott of course, but my nights were full of Edmond Dantes. It was a magical experience, waking up and nestling down in the sweetness of domesticity, and hiding under my blankets eating adventures and running through twisting plots of excitement way too late into the evening. After that I was enraptured. 
Recently, I have married Lauren Winner with Elizabeth Gilbert. It's possibly the worst relationship I've ever created, and I just know that if I wasn't so dedicated they would commit adultery or get a divorce. Eat, Pray, Love is selfish. Completely and utterly selfish. While Lauren is falling into love with my carpenter, Elizabeth is dumping men left and right, trouncing off to countries to find "herself," and being spiritually insignificant. I am just mortified with myself right now. It's honestly like handing someone a Merlot and a bag of pork rinds. But I am determined to finish it out. Because I think if I do, I will learn something about the little flapping bird perched in my heart. I will learn he is Elizabeth Gilbert. I will learn he is wrong most often. I will learn he is my humanity.
I will learn that he is my flesh. 
Gripping onto the cavern of myself that is constantly being filled with the spirit. He is in a flurry. Because he doesn't get it. At all. But that doesn't matter. What matters is the slow fullness of Christ weaving into me. Painting the corners of my chest cavity and quietly making its way towards my heart where that belligerent bird is. It will get there. I will get there. Someday. Possibly when I reach Heaven, that house with porch lights that the busy birds do not like. Possibly when I wake up one morning and find a sheer curtain that changes the colors of my room and think, oh yes. Now I know. This is what it's supposed to be like. This color. With tiny leaves and light exactly this hue.
So, yes. I am that girl. 
I get angry. I get upset. half of the time I honestly don't know what I am doing. I only read my Bible in the quiet moments when I am actually close to grasping the concept of grace because Job does not bode well with me in my own bitterness. I do read fictional novels instead of praying sometimes; I find a solace in Peter Pevensie's struggles with doubt and lordship instead of my own.    
I am that girl.
But, I am also the girl saved by grace she doesn't understand especially when she dwells in the past and sits crying with ironed hair. 
I am a sinner.
I am saved.