Paige Avenue (or something like it)

It used to be that the main street leading from Rt-170 to our house on Gulf was a thoroughfare of complexes, warehouses and meaningless industry. But now it’s something more. Now it’s a passageway. For some it’s the passageway that leads from one major road to the next. For others it’s the space in between here and there. But for me it’s the passage from one world to the next. It’s the gateway to my home, and the entry into my land of solace. It’s the passage from what’s “out there” to what’s “in here”. It’s the entrance to a land of love, and of debates, a land of hope… and of growth. It’s the passage to a land where my Queen awaits me and my little Princess dances. It’s the passage to the Red Station, our home away from all that we’ve since called “home”.

It’s those around us that make this place a place of significance. Here, our little one continues to flourish and grow. She has long since discovered the wonder of existence. And now she is plagued with the obstinate power of discovery. It holds her, keeps her from sleeping and drags her eyes to every corner of the place. She rolls everywhere she can, but her mobility seems more an accidental side effect of dangerously focused play than any intentional exploration. Her playtime is almost always colored by squeals, sputters, screams, babbles, kicks and clapping. She digs deep into her overturned toy-basket to rediscover old treasures. While she drinks milk from her bottle, she examines, with careful consideration, her fingers and hands. Her feet and toes are no less a wonder to her mouth. Her sippy cup is her new best friend; she has learned quickly to drink water from it.

These experiences are her joy, but they are our delight. It’s what makes Red Station a home, instead of a house. It’s her mother’s love—both for her and for her father—that fills me with joy. It’s the love of this place that makes the portal through Paige more than a four-lane road. It’s what makes the industrial barrenness beautiful to me.

vegas

here's a few pics from our vegas trip. i hope to post more on the photobucket account soon. for now, here's what you see: dad huzzard gettin' funky on the dance floor (not alcohol induced), vegas at night, hoover dam, our hotel: Hyatt Regency Lake Las Vegas

home for a time...

i'm home in MD...for a time. it has been GREAT to have a break from classes, although i think i'll be ready to get back into the groove next month. Maia's had a blast with all her relatives. at least thats how it seems... and her relatives have had a great time with her.

flying in was not the easiest thing. maia just wanted to look around and greet the passengers of our small plane. she was tired, but sleep just wouldn't come. about forty minutes outside of Philly, we began our descend on the city of brotherly love. it was then that maia saw fit to stop her fretting. all spread out before us was the blackness of night burning with infinite number. the plane tilted and the ground became our night sky. the incandescent stars below wooed her to themeselves. a snapshot embedded into her father's skull, sure to remain for many years after.

slowly we began our landing. it would be the beginning of many adventures. reuniting with loved ones, deepening relationships, and several restless nights and late car rides to encourage a young child to sleep. we have shared many meals, smiles, conversations and laughs. soon we must return to our alternate reality called st. louis.

so to those whom we were unable to greet, we wish you many blessings. and if you did not receive our Christmas newsletter, but would like a copy, please drop a line and let me know. we'd love to hear from you.

(see more photos @ www.seilback.com under "matt and kelli")

"home"

almost certainly our church home for st. louis:
http://www.crossroadspres.com

great song. notice also the journal entry, by Loreena McKennitt, below the lyrics.

http://www.xs4all.nl/~josvg/cits/lm/lorecd88.html

Jesus

...and then it hit me. Christ's wounds, that is. they're scars. they're not just holes. you might be able to look through the opening in his hands and see to the other side. but then again, you may not. but what counts is that they're there.

if they're real scars then they look leathery and healed. they aren't still bleeding. they're like the scars that we all share, distortions and mutations of skin that come about from the healing of a wound. and so it must be for him. because he's real. and so are his scars. and one day, by God's grace, i'll see them. one day, he'll reach out his hands and show them to me. but even then i may not be able to see them. my eyes will be blurry and my face will be drenched with tears. i will bow. i will embrace. and i will worship. i will realize complete forgiveness in the completeness of my brokeness.

he's real, you know. though my imagined perceptions of him are way off kilter... he's still real. and for one small moment it hit me. in spite of my self-abosorption, self focus and self loathing... he's still real. he has a face. a personality. he has a body. because he's a man like me. but he's so much more. thank goodness, he's so much more. thank goodness his scars are real. thank God he's God.

so capture my heart, oh wounded one. for i am daily wounded and daily wounding. i am covered with scars. daily i provide the injuries for new scars and daily i receive the wounds that will lead to new scars. so heal my wounds and give meaning to my scars... for the purpose of glorifying yours.