He Wants To.

I sat on the beach Saturday morning. Signe, Macullough, and I had taken a three day vacation to Thinker’s. It’s a beautiful beach with a house all to ourselves. We had our own living room and two bedrooms. Signe and I had our own bathroom and huge closet! The man, named Arthur, led us to this beach house that we had reserved and began showing us around. I thought of my sisters and father as I began clasping my hand over my mouth and exclaiming, as if I had never seen one before, “Signe! We have a bathtub! Our own sink and toilet! Look at the bed! The closet! It’s all ours!” Macullough could be heard in the next room as he discovered the luxuries of his very own pad. (To Papa, Kyrie and Chalice:) It was like Survivor. Experiencing such luxury for the first time. It was rich. We had our very own porch. It was small, like 5 Talbot, but it was ours. We had our own sitting room. Our own couches. No other mercyshipers walked around. Only us three. We used that porch during the three days. Oh let me tell you. The porch was gold. It was home. Macullough sat on the left, Signe on the right. I sat off the porch, facing the house, on my white plastic chair. The generator stopped working after an hour so we were without electricity. They brought us a bucket of water. We sat on our porch during the evenings, soaking our feet and enjoying each other in the moon’s light. The porch was still ours when the sun rose the next morning. Signe woke around 8:30. I followed nearly 15 minutes later. I had rolled over, seeing her side was empty, I sat up. I glanced in the mirror, liking what I saw. And that last line Kyrie will understand. I love what salt water does to the hair. It starches it all up. Kinks it and takes the oil out. I get the authentic bed head look. It’s so rugged. No electricity. No showers. Beach. Sand. Salt. Kinky hair. Real living. Perfect living. Kyrie gets me if you don't.

I walked out to our porch. Signe sat. I smiled slightly. Then sat down next to her. The african, Arthur, came up right away. “Coffee? Tea? You want drinks?” He brought us our coffee and tea. I drank three cups of coffee. It was my first time. I’ve never drank coffee. Lowen, I think my taste buds have finally matured, as you always assured me they would. Sugar cubes were lying near the cream. I dipped them slightly in my mug. The drink ran through them. I sucked on sugar for the next hour and half as Signe and I enjoyed our porch.

Sometime on Saturday I found myself sitting alone, Macullough’s Ipod Shuffle in hand. I sat, my knees to my chest, facing the waves. The position eventually tired and I leaned back on my elbows. Finally, I surrendered to the sand and laid my head down. The back of my arms hit the small stones and stuck to my flesh as I rested them. I had brought along Signe’s Bible. Signe bought “The Message” a couple weeks ago which is the Bible in contemporary language. I’m not quick to embrace these sorts of things. As a matter of fact I told her right away, a couple weeks ago, that I wasn’t interested in it and personally don’t believe we need anything more then we’ve got. I worry that through such modern translation we can loose things. One day, when Signe wasn’t in the room, I picked it up though and flipped to my favorite book. Hosea. I read it through. I liked what I read. This Saturday afternoon I had fallen victim once again. I read for a long time. I remembered Marilyn always told people interested in the Bible to start with Luke. Luke was the best gospel to start with. I started with Luke that Saturday morning. Luke 5:13 stuck with me too. A leper asked Jesus to heal him. “If you want to, Jesus, you can heal me”, he said. This contemporary translation of Jesus’s response read “I want to. You’re healed”. I read it back again. Something clicked. I told Signe right when I saw her and three days later I’m still thinking about it. I just finished eating dinner with Sam out on promenade deck and discussed it with him also. Jesus didn’t just heal this man because he was the son of God. He doesn’t just forgive us. He doesn't just help us. He doesn't just freely give us grace. He doesn't just die for us. But he does these things with want. Think about that. I thought about it as I laid there on the sand. Half the time I don’t know what I want but when I do, I know how that feels. It’s a sincere longing. It’s an appreciation. It’s a determination. I begin figuring out how I’m going to get it. Jesus wants me. Then he does something. “I want to. Your healed”. I want you. I’m going to die for you. Then I’m going to continue to persue you even when you repeatedly denigh me.

I like that Jesus wants. I began to get worried though that other translations, older translations, hadn't used the word “want”. During lunch today I looked up a few. I found “I do will it. Be made clean”, “I am willing. Be clean!”, and “I do choose. Be made clean”. I wasn’t feeling as confident when I found these. During dinner tonight I told this to Sam. I told him I worried about The Message’s translation going a bit too far and not sticking with the original meaning as tightly as it should. He got this spark in his expression. Sam loves words. He’ll borrow my laptop and when I get it back I’ll find a word document up with a whole string of vocabulary typed out. I had just given him the perfect outlet. “Sienna, let me explain...I too worry about this but this one they did get right. The word ‘will’ comes from the german word ‘To ville’ which means ‘To want’.” There it was. It was accurate! It was true! Jesus did want me. What a thought. Jesus wants us. And then he does something about it.

I want to show you some pictures of me. So now I’m going to.