The grey coat

March 17, 2014 By

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Some nights I curl into a ball tight under mountains of down with the anxiety of good, because I’ve grown so familiar with the weary.  Like an old peacoat I wore so many years that I reach for it’s tattered sleeves when they are long since gone. A prisoner who wishes he was back in the solidarity of grey.  It’ll be different this time around, I swear. And yet dinner will again grow cold.

So I take this fabric and rip it.  I sew round buttons upon it, and a ruffled lapel, and buy tall black heels with a hint of red underneath, because there is no price more worthy than to rise above the grey of ashes.

And in this coat I travel miles and heartaches to reach him. He is supposed to ride into this town upon a donkey, this man who changed things and built things and sees things, and yet I have no more living to do.  So I flap the wool before me like a parachute as I let it float softly down.  Down to a puddle on the ground, mixed with sand and leaves.  Sticks and ants.  It’s all just dirt and death to me. And below lay an old refashioned pile of rags, rain soaking in its fibers like the earth and the rain and the stones and the coat were all working in stride with one another.

I suppose we were all preparing for a great love that marks you.  For a kiss that surprises you.  For a fire that refines you.  And I curl up in that familiar tight as he draws near, wanting to scrape the earth feverishly with my fingernails to let me in like a brother.  Oh please, hide me from this crushing sense of gratitude that I have not earned, and a grace I have not paid for, and a fear that I will not be enough for the lives I’m responsible for.  So much of my life has been altered, and my vision limited, and so many years pushed and crammed into this very old soul.

It is the same image I had years ago at a conference when the speaker asked where we might have fit in the loaves and fishes story. I was hands and face down, just swaying in the dust, eyes clinched shut.  I couldn’t get low enough.

And yet as tears fell into the puddle beneath me I am caught with the flash of a golden sun ricocheting from the dirty water, and I look up to see an animal’s hooves treading and stopping, and for a moment my weary eyes rise to see what peace looks like passing.  All I have is this one useless thing, and it’s all spread out and soaked up, but I don’t say those words because they’ve already been spoken.

My back, the one that was curved from all the hiding, straightens.  And the grey, it starts to shine like silver. I had no idea I was so broken because now I’m standing tall and I didn’t realize how short I had grown from the stooping.  The black hole of my eye is gone as I reached forward and I felt a brilliant light pass through me. He clicked the back of the donkey as it moved on, down the way, down the road, down around the branches and off beneath the setting sun.

I leave the jacket.  It’s warm out. I feel the earth between my toes and narcissus around my nose and my heart is a white-hot coal that radiates.  I step over the fabric as the dust settles – down the way, down the road, down around the honeysuckle branches and off toward the summer nights to come.

 

photo:

http://www.modcloth.com/shop/coats/midnight-in-michigan-coat

Filed Under: Inspirational, Love, My life, Religion, Uncategorized Tagged With: , , , ,

Saddle Bags

February 21, 2014 By

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I would imagine if I were starving and placed at the forefront of a great feast, I’d be filled with angst.  How would I carry it all away and save it for when there was none? I couldn’t possibly enjoy a corn soufflé knowing it wouldn’t last and the pheasant would turn to bile and the next day it would all be empty and dry again.  Just bones in the dust.  Hungry.  So I’d sit at the head of the table smiling whilst stuffing dinner rolls in my saddle bags.  We just can’t help but to carry around the angst of our past, wondering if the good times might fade away.

I think of the last few years as a trench that I’ve been living in, just hunkered down with my provisions, escaping for food and coming back to the hole with a heavy sigh.  It’s natural when you’ve been beat down to want to protect yourself from attack and make sure you stride more watchfully into the dark night.

When my foot touched down upon a different future, naturally I was still burdened with the memories.  Nights in the hole.  Bombs dropping and shells exploding and haunting faces in my dreams, hollowed out and empty.  But when you leave a warzone, there is no identifying tattoo speed across your chest.  Separated by enough continents and time zones you just seem to have appeared from somewhere, like you went on vacation with a svelte new frame and more coy responses.

So here I am.  I look down to see jewels on my fingers.  I sit at the fancy table with shimmering lights and roses, where men ask to call and tell me I’m pretty.  And in the middle of the room as I cross it in heels toward the door my insides just rage with fire and bristle.  I remember the hole.  The ache of starvation.  The pit of my stomach is just as far to the ground as it was in the worst nights, and I find my hands clasping around a hard dinner roll. I slip it in my pocket.  Just in case.  The funny thing is that the fear of death and the fear of living have the same effect on me.  Both are filled with the unknown, and that causes my stomach pit to flare.

At 3 am this morning I woke, filled with that familiar dread.  The pain that all this bounty will come crashing down.  The high will subside.  The peace broken. Pheasant always turns to bile in the end.  And yet as I lay there with my two children, huddled to my left and to my right, I heard the strangest thing.  My daughter, who appeared to be giggling.  In her sleep she was laughing, and I heard the manifestation of dreams. I held my children tight and let tears well and realized that God is to my left and to my right.  He stretches beyond me and is far behind.  What, and whom, shall I fear?

I dress for dinner in a house bathed in peace. I have a night ahead filled with laughter, with new heels just for the occasion.  In my slumber I see new life sprouting.  I take the saddle bags, the ones filled with old crusty rolls, and I leave them sitting by the garage door, leaning over just so.  A smile spreads from the ether of my former self, the one who remembered.  The one filled with fear.

I have no need for these any more, it seems.

photo:

The Problem with Vintage Equipment

Filed Under: Inspirational, Love, Motherhood, My life, Religion Tagged With: , , , , ,

The Breaking of Bread

February 8, 2014 By

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I’m not Catholic.  And yet in church when all heads are bowed I make the sign of the cross on my chest because somehow it feels holy and special like I am a part of a secret club.  My Catholic friend Dawna invited me to attend her church once, and I gleefully knelt up and down and was practically giddy as I listened to the archaic priest-who-never-married repeat things in Latin. I proudly stand like a soldier when we repeat en masse the Doxology and the Lord’s prayer and I once sang in a baroque acapella group. So if you think this girl lives in a modern world you are SADLY MISTAKEN.  My soul is trapped somewhere in the 1800s and really only get out to drink lattes and watch Netflix and buy fun little apps on my iphone.  I love tradition, and things that are deeply rooted, and for this reason change is my adversary and I struggle breaking things apart that are long-lasting.

So when I see churches with names involving rocks and stones and new life and cafes in which people-drink-coffee-with-Jesus I get confused. Not because these are bad things.  There is no bad as far as I’m concerned when it comes to worship and love and being in community with people who are trying to row the same direction.  But I wonder how these churches will be able to build the type of roots that stretch deep through generations.  How one who is impoverished and hungry and living in a broken-down shack in Ireland where everyone shares the pisshole and living on the dole get excited about coffee with Jesus like they do about First Communion. Because there’s something holy and sacred about traditions, and relics, and stories that have been handed down from King James and wafers on tongues and the body of Jesus, broken.

Last Sunday, I thought about bolting after the last hymn.  After all, I had laundry to fold and errands to run and friends to text. The whole concept of communion is slow and old and antiquated.  It’s times like these I wish I were drinking coffee with Jesus and singing praise songs on a Jumbotron. I sat there and wondered what this must look like to the outside world.  Just a bunch of silly chaps eating bites of bread and taking grape juice shots in little plastic cups before noon.  But I waited, because it’s rude to leave and I had nowhere really important to be.  I waited while the choir sang and the little trays were passed around.  I wondered if I had a missed text or if I’d eat leftovers for dinner, and I looked at the ushers going from row to row to row like they did every first Sunday of the month.

And then the tray was passed.  The body of Jesus.  I smiled and took it, which I knew was just a loaf of Hawaiian Original Sweet Round Bread from Kroger and wasn’t the literal body of Christ, but as I tore off a hunk and put it in my mouth something happened.  It just cemented itself like a glob of peanut butter and I couldn’t choke it down.  Try as I might it wouldn’t move, and tears welled up in my eyeballs as I sat there in my new hat wondering if I had any missed texts and whether I should have bolted after the last hymn.

I could feel thousands of years crash into one. Tradition came up deep like drawing water from a well, and I remembered the times as a child I waddled up to the communion rail and sat next to my father in a suit and the nights I cried and sobbed over the fact that the son of God had to suffer on our behalf and how deeply metaphorical and beautiful and special this last supper was so many years ago.  And then the cup was before me and I drank the sweet juice and I felt small and humbled and so full of gratitude my hat couldn’t hold it all in so I held it down as I walked to my car and felt inextricably full.

I swallowed. Greedily my body devoured it.  Hungrily my heart absorbed it.  I accepted that love without feeling paralyzed by guilt or haunted by pain because it was freely given, and despite just being a loaf of Hawaiian Original Sweet Round Bread from Kroger it was the body of Christ after all, broken and torn and laid out for the redemption of sins.

 

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photo:

The Last Supper 18

Filed Under: Blog the Bible, Inspirational, Love, Religion, Uncategorized Tagged With: , , ,

heartbroken mondays

December 2, 2013 By

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I should be in bed by ten.  I should be at the gym.  I should be more optimistic and use more restraint and quit drinking full-calorie beer.  I have got to cut out the word “I” and perhaps not sit on the floor crying when my three-year-old tells me I’m the worst person ever while sitting in time-out attempting to slam the door closed with his feet. And when I walk out of church because my two kids can’t keep their seats and I glance over to see my daughter humming whilst making a stack of hymnals and my pants don’t fit and I can’t seem to find the energy to even grin and I read about how all these other people are cheerful and in love and snuggling up with hot chocolate and even the television dramas seem saccharine and I’m telling you I want to throw something hard out the window in order to see it shatter.

And then anger bubbles up and the devil whispers in my heart that self-pity’s a salve that will heal, but he’s a damn fool because all he causes is regret in the morning.  So I fire up the stove and stir beef stew because at least meat falls apart with enough pressure. The other day I even burned the cornbread, which is the south’s equivalent to cussing out your mother, because no Texan over the age of twelve burns cornbread, but I just muttered to myself, like well that’s just about right.

But friends, a lot can be done with time and distance.  I know this because a friend once told me that when we have set-backs, we don’t fall as hard and we don’t fall as deep and the coming back is faster.  It’s like our bodies somehow remember before the fall, and are ever striving to return to a peaceful state.

On Thanksgiving, my kids weren’t home.  I lay flat in bed for two hours staring at trees out my bedroom window, letting tears fall.  I begged God to forgive my lack of faith, and my inability to trust in bigger plans.  I regretted my undisciplined, self-centered life.  And yet I rose just the same, and with Nordstrom’s holiday bronzer I made my depression look all sparkly, and I shoved myself into skinny jeans and looped my blond hair around a curling iron and lip glossed my way to brunch with friends.  And it got better.  Mostly because of mimosas and pumpkin pancakes, but let’s not focus on details.

Time and distance.  Self-forgiveness and thankfulness, even when your feelings haven’t caught up.  These things work. So if you find yourself dragging toward Christmas, unsure why you can’t get motivated, feel something lacking in your life, or better yet you’re just flat-out angry, I feel you. Just forgive yourself for today and free up some space to breathe.

This morning, as I was driving my kids to school, I saw the most amazing sunrise.  Clouds swept across the sky like popcorn kernels and the sun spread over them like melted butter.  I pulled over on the side of the road and took my children’s hands.  Poor things – they’re used to this by now.  My daughter just tilts her head to the side, like “Oh how sweet.  Mom’s having a moment.” I told them how much I loved them, and how blessed I was to have them for a short while, and I thanked God for the new dawn.  And then this Presbyterian put her hand up high in the Chevy Tahoe and veered back on the road repeating the name El Shaddai out loud until we reached the carpool line.  My daughter asked if I had some sort of arm-itch issue or whether something was wrong with the rear-view mirror and am I speaking German?  I didn’t even know what the words meant except that I sang it in a childhood song, but the name just exploded from my mouth and was just as obvious as incense in a tomb.  And then my son asked me if God actually speaks, and I told him not in the same language as we do, but he sure can paint, and he nodded.  I watched my kid’s tussled-hair going up and down, up and down, nodding in the car seat and admiring the sky.

So you might need to run.  You might need to sleep more, and eat less.  But I’ll tell you one thing – you really need to quit listening to the lies that your life is stagnant and all hope is gone.  Keep on thanking God, even when you don’t always feel it, because out of nowhere on a Monday on the way to your kid’s school you’ll feel time and distance start to set in, and you’ll crawl slowly back out of the setback hole, stronger than before, and you’ll grin.  Because of the absurdity of non-stop Christmas music (we barely escaped November and I’m only halfway through coffee and nobody cares what Mariah Carey wants for Christmas because she has seventeen pairs of red bedazzled stilettos FOR THE LOVE WHAT ELSE DO YOU NEED, WOMAN) and the fact that your daughter thought you were speaking German, and the fact that you bought bronzer with the word “holiday” in the title.  And because we love an amazing, glorious God who never leaves us abandoned.  He throws his might across the sky like a billboard as if to remind us that hope is alive.  Our lives are so worthy.  No worries, girl, if you burn that cornbread again you can always move to Wisconsin, and surely folks there could stand a bit of pep in the winter.

El Shaddai, the sustainer and the destroyer, the One Almighty. Raise your hands and embrace it. Even if it might embarrass your children.  Even if tears run down your face at a sunrise.   Because life’s glorious, my dear friends, even on heartbroken Mondays.

 

Photo:

Sunrise, Kyoto (Explored #109)

 

 

 

 

Filed Under: Inspirational, My life, Religion, Texas Tagged With: , , , , ,

Battle Cry

September 25, 2013 By

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This morning at 2 am, I rose.  My neck was sore and my chest was tight.  There is a weariness that comes from living this life and bearing so many crosses, and our age overpowers us.  And yet the fog was clearing, and the time was near. I heard the bugle sound, which signaled not the respite of taps but the call for war, and I knew.  I knew it was time, and I stumbled onto the field next to warriors also fractured and spent.  We nodded in mutual assent, and I lifted up my arms to clasp the handle of the sword, resting in the sheath strapped with buckles to my back.  I heard the metal sing against the leather as my triceps pulled it free, its weight as much as my child with a core of steel.  I am not a man and do not have the strength of an ox, so I hold it with shaking arms.  I look to my left and slowly to my right and see the warm comforting breath of others, weapons raised, ready.  There is war paint on some, other cheeks streaked with tears.  All are waiting the call from our commander to invade, for the time is now and sleeping is done.

 

And all of a sudden I charge, not with a whisper or a bowed head.  I do not glance at the ceiling or stare aimlessly forward, but with sweat dripping from my forehead I look toward the face of God and let out a cry so piercing and deep that I surprise myself.  I stab and cut apart and I do not let one man survive. Because evil is not to just be fought valiantly, but it is to be won.  It’s hard when evil lies beside you, or is in the heart of your own clan, and worse when in your own flesh, but you cut it out and eliminate its tendrils from racing toward your soul.  Sometimes the soldiers I slay disappear on the field, fading into the rising fog, which makes it hard to see the living from the dead.

 

There are times I want to charge this hill and God says another, telling me that the plan is more intricate than I realize and that we are fighting a long, bloody war.  And there are times I lose a battle, wrestling hard for what I think is best, but it is not to be.  There is a longer road ahead, soldiers whisper at night as we regain our strength.  And I don’t understand those moments, the mystery of why.  I look around and it seems like I’m fighting all alone.  My sword grows to heavy to bear, my eyes are sore, and my ankles bow from running on rocks and gravel.

 

So I slow, and bend to put my hands on my knees.  I just need a breather.  I am so tired of courage.  And yet I soak oxygen into lungs and stand tall again, ready for another bugle call.  I’ve learned through the many years that death really isn’t the great fear: living with a chasm established between self and God is the real terror.  Prayer is a tool to root out our inner demons, and commune with God in a way only soldiers can relate.  I listen and obey, whatever way He orders.  Sometimes my prayers aren’t answered and I don’t know why, and other times they are answered in abundance.  But I charge the hill in front of me, because that’s the battle plan.

 

I don’t see Jesus as meek or mild, just a man who spoke gently with crows feet and soft, pretty eyes.  A lion is not less fierce because he’s lying in the noonday sun yawning and licking his paws.  A man who faced persecution he did not deserve, resisted the urge to prove his earthly status, had the power to move mountains, repelled the devil face-to-face, and hung on nails for what he did not do – this is power of a kind that I can only serve.  This is leadership for which I can only follow.  This is a commander for whom I lay down my very life, and fight when called.  There’s no way around the pain.  You can’t run around it or sidestep it or numb it.  You have to run right through it with swords raised.

 

This is prayer.  It is bold.  It is strong.  My fellow warriors, we have no other option but to slay evil, fight for good, and win this long war.

 

I’m not a big fan of “I’ll be praying for you.”  Mostly because I don’t believe it when people casually throw it around, and I feel it’s somehow watering down the practice by sprinkling it into most all conversations, just squeezing it between let’s go to lunch and I love your boots. And I don’t think we should all be out there praying to find the perfect red dress at Macy’s because it’s our lunch hour and we need this thing to happen.

 

But I wholeheartedly believe in the power of prayer.  I dated a Catholic once. He went to confession because that’s what a good Catholic does, like brushing one’s teeth or unloading the dishwasher.  And then there are the dinnertime prayers, sometimes out of obligation or guilt or habit or routine, thanking God for enchiladas and buttered corn. I had a talk with a girlfriend recently who said she didn’t believe God really answered prayers of substance.  Now she mostly just asks for wisdom without getting too specific.

 

I don’t have a field guide for prayer.  And in some way I think God hears them all, buttered corn and red dresses alike, chuckling at times and forgiving our immaturity. But “when I was a child, I talked like a child.  I thought like a child.  I reasoned like a child.  When I became a man, I put the ways of childhood behind me.” 1 Corinthians 13:11.

 

I grew up somewhere between school girl and mother.  And when I pray, I take it seriously.  I yell and cry out and beg and plead very specific things, sometimes muttering the only words that come to mind.  Other times I just sit and repeat the name of Jesus like a balm to my battle wounds.   I might raise a name of a friend, or a situation that’s unresolved, and other times I write it all down and just save it in anger, like God can darn well read it for himself.  I don’t think there’s a right way to pray.  But don’t deceive yourself that it’s just empty words floating toward the night sky. Prayer is power, and answers will come.  My brothers, it’s the lion sleeping in the night.  When it charges forth with teeth baring, it slays.

 

See you on the battlefield. 

 

photo:

(three w’s)thenflickr.com/photos/ranh/270486400/sizes/m/in/photolist-pUjbC-pUjeF-pUj6j-cMzAJ1-3aJfRU-5jYhFi-vYHvP-apPf2R-6Bz3A7-4pNsMx-8S5W1d-5p6SKH-bRWztz-bD2Rvj-bUp84p-bUzjiG-bUzjnL-bUzjzs-bUziSb-bUzjvb-bUziBo-bUziL9-bUzitU-bUziVQ-bUzjCN-bUzj1u-bUzj8E-4MxcfG-bUzjHo-bUzjQ3-bUzjdN-e8xyDM-9h3LW8-93GFFe-7GYTuP-97qsCn-97qq9D-46Bmup-4iJR6Q-7FaSJz-47xnaK-pUj2t-bumETh-pUk7M-pUk4U-pUjXT-pUkaf-pUkcT-bmKeHQ-74hUTE-74dZPD/

Filed Under: Inspirational, Religion Tagged With: , , , , ,

Blogging the Bible: David & Goliath

September 18, 2013 By

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Caravaggio, my favorite painter of all time, painting David and Goliath

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I think everyone knows this story – there’s this big mean giant that keeps taunting everyone, and the Israelites are afraid of him, but young handsome David rolls his eyes like “seriously ya’ll – he’s only like six feet tall, so quit shivering in your sandals like total weasels and buck up already.” He casually walks over to the front of the line, picks up some shiny stones, pulls out his little deerskin slingshot, and hits the giant with a pebble square between the eyes. The giant falls down, David chops his head off like “that’s how I roll, folks,” and there’s probably a Jaz-Z song playing in the background.  David walks in slow-motion up to the commander, and at the end of the day he’s writing folk songs on the hillside and later becomes king.

Or at least that’s how I remember it.  And honestly, that’s not super practical for my day-to-day life.  But now that I read it with new eyes, more emerges.

So the story begins with the Philistines on one hill and the Israelites on the other with a valley between them, gathering for war.  I suppose in those days, war was a more civil affair, with no fear of chemical weapons or hidden warfare or land mines that blow shrapnel into your armpits and eye sockets, and they all just charged at each other like buffalo.  And Goliath stood out in line and taunted the men of Israel for forty days, which seems a little excessive if you ask me, like “yes yes, we know you’re a bad-ass.  Please stop it already with all that narcissistic bravado.”

But one day when David, a mere shepherd, was bringing food to his brothers, he overheard a discussion about Goliath and asked who this fellow was that kept causing all the fuss.  He was told by the men that whoever killed this man would have all sorts of cool things like money and the king’s daughter and an exemption from taxes.  Don’t get me started how kings are always passing their daughters off like trophies.

So David was pumped, because who wouldn’t want money and a fair maiden and no taxes?  Now I see how he’s able to play the guitar in the meadow.  So David went to the king and indicated that if he can fight off bears and lions while tending sheep, this arrogant prick was not going to be a problem.  He shrugs off armor – what good is that anyway? – and goes straight up to Goliath and his shield bearer.  I really want to explore more about this poor little shield bearer – did he have to lug that heavy thing out there every single day for forty days? If the fighting got super icky did he just hide underneath it like a turtle? Doesn’t that seem a little wimpy for Goliath to need a caddy?  These things are not explained.  Figures.

But here’s where I really spent some mental energy – David said some pretty strong words to this Philistine.  He stated: “You come against me with sword and spear and javelin, but I come against you in the name of the Lord Almighty, the God of the armies of Israel, whom you have defied. This day the Lord will deliver you into my hands, and I’ll strike you down and cut off your head. This very day I will give the carcasses of the Philistine army to the birds and the wild animals, and the whole world will know that there is a God in Israel. All those gathered here will know that it is not by sword or spear that the Lord saves; for the battle is the Lord’s, and he will give all of you into our hands.”

After reading that, things shifted.  I didn’t just see David as some punk teenager killing a giant with a slingshot.  He might have had the body of a child, but he had a brave heart that belonged solely to God, with a confidence that the killing of this man was a mere afterthought.  It was as if he was setting one foot atop the water and knew that it would hold his weight.  David was making a statement that the things of this world – swords and spears and harsh words and burdens and death and cancer and all other worldly things – are nothing compared to the strength our Lord Almighty provides.

God’s name would not be defiled, and the battle, my friends, had already been won.

Jesus commanded that “if you have faith and do not doubt. . . if you say to this mountain, ‘Be lifted up and thrown into the sea,’ it will be done.  Matthew 21:22. But rarely is such belief displayed. David believed so assuredly that with the power of God he could defeat this man that the entire Israelite army feared, and only with a stone. There was no quiver of fear from the depths of his heart, and no arrogance in his claims.  This was not about David himself, or winning money, or being tax free.  Only arrows of truth were proclaimed, and it was to be.  God had won this fight.  David was only His servant pushing that message through the air with string.

I’m bowing down today at this assurance.  That I will not be shaken.  That when the taunting begins, and a giant is yet again in front of me, I will fear no evil.  For God is with me, His rod and His staff –  they comfort me.  And I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.  David wrote that, in Psalm 23, because he had a personal relationship with the Father. He knew that there was nothing bigger, and no giant greater, and all those gathered will know that it’s not by sword or spear that the Lord saves, but by grace, and mercy, and love deeper than any man.

Sometimes the battles we face are not on a hillside, but in the relentless grinding of the day.  The taunting of one who hates us.  The anger at one who is shamed.  We sigh deep at the reality of cells eating at our breast tissue, or weep at the coffin of a small child that was ripped from our arms.  We keep wiping away tears in the carpool line because ENOUGH, Lord.  It’s too much, and too heavy to bear, and we don’t have any reserves left to fight.  And sometimes, we just want to lay down our weapons and curl up in a corner, unable to keep rising, and keep smiling, and keep moving.  There is only so much we can take, and we are bending under the weight of it.

So we lay in a ditch with a dusty throat, shivering in fear, unable to croak out even a prayer, and see a child walk by.  Just a boy who watches sheep.  And he says with all assurances that we are more than this.  That God’s name will be praised in all things.  That the Lord will deliver those who are faithful.  And we are paralyzed as we watch him defeat a giant, and use his own sword to sever his head, and we are in awe of such courage.  It’s then that we swallow hard, walk over to David, and fall at his feet as king.

Thank you, child, for reminding me that I am protected.  That when I wander, even though I am one of ninety-nine billion, God will not leave me to my own devices.  He will search, and ache, and reach to the depths of the earth to find me.  Who is the greatest in heaven?  Jesus placed a child among them, and preached about the lost, and the found, and the faces of the obedient, and the lowly.  And in the dust and the bloody chest of a fallen giant, I see the greatest among me is not me, but He.  I see that this child has believed, and accepted that the battle has been won, and I surrender.

Thank you, oh God, for this victory. 

 

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photo:

(three w’s)then: flickr.com/photos/ergsap/9633080076/sizes/m/in/photolist-fFf46w-fEXtHt-fEXtHZ-7K5Ub9-532XUQ-69N7De-8SikSL-bpdJED-8teVbd-6qidN1-6Qk1K8-6Qk1UX-Mh25N-6Qk24n-6Qp7Q5-5i6BER-BwEYH-fgLmmb-6mnXxg-8piu6J-8tPR7F-g1Xxj-b663Rr-4DVv3y-6Qk1En-kSF8j-9unWjj-N3juc-5yvQ6U-6Qk2nv-sxX1G-5HtV7G-a9NCgb-6Qp6Qo-dX9jfB-6Qp8bG-5JHbBC-7YKJS4-azcujL-bFAMgZ-5PvKMp-8xoWUe-dDqZW-6Qk1kn-4MiyPD-2BBeQE-62dUqo-5nWy8Z-hr5UZ-bFqZoB-51LZBc/

Filed Under: Blog the Bible, Inspirational, Love, Religion, Uncategorized Tagged With: , , , , , ,

A Fresh Start

September 5, 2013 By

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Today is a new beginning for me.  For those who have also had to start new journeys, I’ll offer this poem from Veronica Shoffstall that speaks for me so well.  I am confident that God does not half-way restore, but restores completely.  We don’t lose in life and are left clutching consolation prizes.  Sometimes when our prayers are seemingly unanswered, we just have to look above in faith. Right around this dark corner might reveal a world we are so much better suited for, and I welcome what God has in store.  Hello, bright new dawn.  Your shine sparkles to me like diamonds.

“Comes The Dawn”

After a while you learn the subtle difference
Between holding a hand and chaining a soul,
And you learn that love doesn’t mean leaning
And company doesn’t mean security,
And you begin to learn that kisses aren’t contracts
And presents aren’t promises,
And you begin to accept your defeats
With your head up and your eyes open
With the grace of a woman, not the grief of a child,
And you learn to build all your roads on today,
Because tomorrow’s ground is too uncertain for plans,
And futures have a way of falling down in mid-flight.
After a while you learn
That even sunshine burns if you get too much.
So you plant your own garden and decorate your own soul,
Instead of waiting for someone to bring you flowers.
And you learn that you really can endure…
That you really are strong,
And you really do have worth.
And you learn and learn…
With every goodbye you learn.

photo:

Dawn, Kinnoull Hill Overlooking the Tay

Filed Under: Inspirational, Love, My life, Religion Tagged With: , , ,

Small graces

August 26, 2013 By

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It’s been a long year.  A year I didn’t expect.  Emotions I certainly never thought I’d face.  I know I’m not alone in the pain of Things Coming Out of Nowhere, like a beast in the night.  Whether it’s cancer or the death of a mother or divorce or the loss of a child: you can’t build up reserves in advance to “handle it.”  You are just thrown right in that cold lake without quite knowing how to swim, and you have to just keep gasping for air and thrashing around until you can find a way out.

I’ve yelled at God a lot lately.  Maybe not literally, but inside of me there’s a hot place in the middle of my chest that burns, and grows large, and I think things like “you must be on vacation” and “seriously? I’ve been saying the exact same prayer for a year now and I’m getting sick of listening to my own internal dialogue.”  And then I feel guilty, because God’s God and I’m trying to squeeze into his chair and tell him how to run things, which makes me sad again, and it’s a vicious cycle.  But I say the same prayer anyway, because there’s that old story of a relentless widow. I hope God doesn’t get sick of reruns.

Today, a friend told me that every day provides us with small graces.  Look for them, she said. I nodded, because that’s what you do when people say that things will look up or God will redeem all or time heals.  You just smile and nod, but they don’t really know my life.  The vending machine is all out of small graces, because butterflies floating on my lantanas don’t make my heart heal, or pay my bills, or make my soul at peace.  I glare at the monarch in an angry, pity-fueled darkness, and I just want to release my grasp on the log that keeps me afloat and just sink underneath in slow motion. I grit my teeth and say the same prayer that I say every freaking day, over and over again, and hope God will listen. I might not be in his chair, but I’m going to sit at his feet and just keep tapping on a toe until somebody hears me.

I don’t think we would be human if we didn’t go through times like this.  Just psalmists crying out in lamentation about the unfair, cruel, and often confusing place we find ourselves in. I know I should be thankful for a thousand gifts, and see all these small graces fluttering on my nose, but I’ve clenched my eyes shut.  Because as it turns out I don’t run the world, and I can’t see into my future, and I don’t always know what’s best for me.  Like the time I cut bangs and wore acid-washed jeans.  We can’t trust ourselves, people.

I think sometimes it’s easier to rot in our own self-pity than force ourselves to prop open our eyelids and see the protection around us.  The fact that our legs are strong, and the log came floating by, and there’s a stranger fishing for carp that heard our cries.  The fact that the rains stopped, and the boat came, and you looked up to see sunlight streaming like laser beams through the parting clouds.  Maybe God’s the one who’s yelling, and we’re so busy wallowing that we don’t even notice.

So now, my legs are still shaking but steady, and I’m heading slowly to shore in a beat-up old fishing boat.  My arms still clutch an imaginary log in the water, and I’m hoarse from screaming, but I’m humbled.  And quiet for a change.  And slowly, as tears of gratitude well, I croak out the same prayer.  The one I’ve yelled and screamed and whispered and sobbed. The same one I said yesterday and the same one I’ll say tomorrow.  Once, months ago, I said this same prayer and sat there in my bedroom for a solid four hours waiting to hear a reply, like a staring contest with God.  I heard birds, and an airplane, and a squirrel’s chatter, which hardly counted.  And yet now with a blanket around my shoulders it feels suddenly new again, and I know that every single heartfelt prayer has been heard and felt and inhaled like incense to a loving Father. I don’t know the answers, or my future, but I smile at the benevolence I do not deserve.

A butterfly rests on my arm – wings like lace so delicately displayed.  It’s high noon, and the sun that has provided me with such little warmth fuels it’s very flight, all the way to Mexico over fields and river and stale grey condominiums.  It breaks apart from his brothers to land here, just for a moment on my arm, like he’s been waiting for me to come.  It fills that burning hole in my chest with love.

She’s right, my friend. Every day does indeed provide small graces.  Look for them.

 

Photo:

http://www.flickr.com/photos/lunasinestrellas/6837600442/sizes/m/in/photolist-bqduoN-bqduoC-bqduoh-bqduo5-bqduo9-967Big-6ztEK-6ztEQ-6ztEN-98d3Gw-98d3wL-5XNCMz-bnTDMq-9i7PuY-9i7PJ3-5BXznK-5C2TtW-5qM4SP-8h1NXX-8h55hj-9TMBRR-9i7HiL-uAEFU-7NQDoi-7ytQYj-7t2sBb-kVoGs-az4Xif-7hZY3A-7hZXVC-7hW3zv-9i7Gxd-f3oCg-f3ozF-f3oyk-f3oD2-f3oyG-f3oDp-f3ozu-djfj6c-f3oz2-8tNLVo-f3owh-8Bdm47-8yK4xo-8Dy3vu-8Dy3Ew-8DuTo8-8DuWCB-3imQ1i-f3oA5/

 

Filed Under: Inspirational, My life, Religion Tagged With: , , , ,

Yin and Yang

August 1, 2013 By

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Our church has a sister church in Africa, and my pastor was asking the pastor there what he thought after his recent visit to America.  Oh it’s glorious, he said. Americans are full of excess and riches, but there was this one tiny thing. . .

 

We lack a theology of suffering.  It’s not that Americans don’t suffer. We might not watch feces float down the street or feed only rice to our children and we are not forced to hide from revolutionary warriors on a bloody stretch toward hell.  But we still have pain.

 

Men are sitting in offices right this minute ridden with anxiety and depression and shame.  Women are barely breathing and sneaking gin and wondering why they can’t love their own offspring.  Just one moment ago someone was eating a turkey sandwich and then they got into a car wreck or came down with lung cancer and their life is forever changed. People get laid off and laid in the ground and lay with the wrong person at the wrong time.  And yet what do we do about it? Do we see it as part of the yin and the yang, like the seasons or opposites on the continuum of energy or the way one cannot live without the other?

 

At best, I think our society feels like suffering is just an unfortunate inconvenience that in time will improve, like divorce sucks or cancer sucks and it’s an excuse to buy a card with a little picture of a steaming cup of tea and a statement about coping skills.  At worst, we feel suffering as an indication that God is absent or that faith isn’t real and provides a perfect excuse to be angry and bitter at the hand we’re dealt.

 

But are we capable of recognizing that suffering is a necessary part of things?  Not just because the Bible says it or because we all love to be martyrs and wallow in self-pity, jealous of those who seem to escape its grasp, but because it’s important to have both sides in our life to make it rich and full?

 

Our life cycle on this planet full of death and eating young and dying old and road kill and global warming and bliss and mountaintops and sleeping children who take your breath away and doldrums and laundry and shock and laughter and Tuesday taco nights and moments that hurt so bad your whole body burns.  And it doesn’t come in any form of natural order, like well this is a sucky Winter, but alas – Spring is comin. It’s all jumbled up like dancing bingo balls in a hopper.  Good, good, good. Oh crap. Really really bad.

 

But without the trip through the dark there is no blessing of lightness. Without the bleeding and the dying and vinegar on our lips, there is no rising from the dead.  When at times the bad hits long and hard, and when you just want to scream to the sky to quit with the freaking hail and the torrential wall of hurt, remember that when the sun shines again you will rest more soundly.  You will hear music with new ears, and feel love with a fresh heartbeat, and have the benefit of one who has aged and grown up with both fear and grace, hate and apathy, and the yin and the yang will balance.  One day, in the not-so-distant future, all those bouncing balls will settle.

 

Only then will we see the fullness of God’s restoration, and have a true appreciation for opposites, and know in our hearts that despite the long heavy winter, Spring will eventually come again. Thank God for suffering, and perspective, and for valleys and mountains alike.  It gives us an insight into true perseverance – the long haul – and provides us with a modicum of hope.

 

Yes, the buoyant saplings of Spring will someday come again.  It just may be a while, with a few scorching summers in between.

 

photo:

(three w’s): flickr.com/photos/raymaclean/4283897275/sizes/m/in/photolist-7wy6pR-5Lb6Zr-757xF9-f8hQzE-4jzRSF-4h2wLe-dFBxb3-6ujUy8-9g3E1T-dMHAMY-8LLZA1-951YsT-bTBg8-c4MZhY-9iUKCp-b1EQNg-aLCEQt-dBgC7p-5LfmBC-8jXH6G-9uy2fw-7AMsTi-7yuR56-aPsrgX-6SXHK9-8ZMuKm-asmYq8-52fHX7-azfsHf-egqXyX-dVB9Dv-8ay91y-6ujUGM-e7Aym4-4sS58x-6te1-8akjeS-arbis-7AMsTR-HCexn-4h6zTf-pruhx-ek4Mw-97WSHi-8ZGiB7-vzH3G-55ZnMm-eDjvKi-fMmZN-7QAYtY-6ed32D/

Filed Under: Health, Inspirational, Love, My life, Religion Tagged With: , , ,

Misfits

July 23, 2013 By

 

Enjoying the nature

I hope that my children turn out to be misfits.  Geeks.  Nerds of the worst sort.  I hope they don’t fit snugly into a world of perfect hair and football uniforms where things come easy.  Because self-esteem comes from knowing you’re worth more than the stereotypes.  Because failing miserably over and over builds up deep reserves of character.  I want my children to fail because I love them so.  And loving them means I want them to develop a strong moral fiber, and a confidence that only comes after the breaking.  And when they hear the words “you are not of this world,” I want them to feel the words seared into their very own scars.

In 6th grade, I had a deep crush on some boy with glasses.  Everyone knew it, and the mean girls would write notes and slide them under my desk as if coming from him.  Letters covered with hearts and cheap men’s cologne that I believed for a solid four days, telling me to wait by his locker for a kiss.  It was a lie, as I soon discovered.  And when the history teacher wasn’t looking, someone threw gum in my hair that stuck and my mom ended up cutting it out and wedging stray strands free with Vaseline.  Let’s be honest: school sucked.  Especially when I fell over backwards and broke both wrists at the same time, waddling around in high tops and matching arm casts. Try and top that, fellow nerds of the world.

One day at recess in the 7th grade, before the days of school shootings and metal detectors, someone lit up and threw a smoke bomb at me, the red ball singing with pent-up explosive authority, causing me to topple off a ledge and break my ankle.  And there was the time I was so desperate to wear Guess jeans that I sewed one of those triangle labels on the back pocket of an old worn-out pair of Levis. And for a blissful few hours, I felt special.  Until the label started to unravel in English class and I stood in front of an entire room of kids pointing and staring, practically curled over in raucous laughter.  The feeling in my gut sunk deep, and I can still feel its weight after all these years.  I was so hungry to fit in.  I ached to belong. I just wanted time to rush by so I could enter the seductive world of adulthood.  But children, you aren’t ready.  These lessons have to simmer slow.

Growing up is hard.  It should be, because this world is hard, and it can at times be filled with pain.  You have to learn these lessons at a time when you can still run home to the loving and accepting arms of family.  Many times we would take weekend trips to the city, because mom could tell my sister or I had quite enough. The defenses were tearing loose at the seams, and we just needed to breathe.  That’s what true family is – it’s a space where you can let out the air and take off the mask and learn who you really are.  Loved regardless of what you do or what you say or what you wear.  A fierce love.  An elegant love.  A love that stands next to you, so that no matter how far you run, you can’t ever overtake it. We’d order pizza and flop around in the hotel pool and just be our glorious, goofy, nerdy selves.

I will die running to tell my children how they can never disappoint me.  How the lives that they see as silly and disjoined are like masterpieces to me, patching their father and their grandparents and their own twisted strands of cells into a pride in me that swells.  Oh my loves.  The flesh of my flesh.  You will never do anything too vast or too dark to create a chasm in my heart.  And if I can wrap my heart around you like this, you can only imagine how much more God can love.

There are times I wish my childhood was different.  I wish I had cooler stories or adventures across the globe or wild weekends of desire. I cringe at my own feelings of inadequacy, feeling stupid for being tall and clumsy instead of whimsical and witty. I didn’t go to fancy camps.  I didn’t join a sorority.  I wasn’t in cheerleading or wear name-brand clothes and I only made All-State Choir as an alternate.

But I was so deeply loved.  And now I’m so grateful now for the trials, because they only get harder, and your strength is tested, and it’s the ability to rise above them that matters.  After all these years, I laugh more.  I judge less.  I have learned that great courage is found in the vulnerable places and to succeed you first have to feel the sting of failure.  I rise up and arch my back against the blazing sun with tears drying on my cheeks.  I throw my hands up to the heavens and say thank you to parents that always believed, and ran along side of me until their sides heaved with hurt, and never let go. Because I know that no matter what happens, I will be okay.  I will rise again.  I will be loved.

That’s what it’s like to be a misfit. And it’s beautiful.

 

—

photo:

http://www.flickr.com/photos/greenlightforgirls/5166535531/sizes/m/in/photolist-8SxR1P-akdfhX-bMgu1F-bMgtWe-bMgtQZ-6phQVs-7agAHq-8dy5h6-7dyoo5-5D41Ga-8N68Bk-aYX5zR-a5PVqk-8ym3ak-9ftAoV-bniUuu-5PgEkR-dJz2TD-bDRPuS-6KrCDn-ciN23Q-bzd1GD-qnqgQ-f8deek-9atX92-6qeVfb-4JZYzo-f8sozW-9suffB-8MdBUz-dwCCjH-a7bmkR-brfbii-f8stCs-6vqzMb-f8smkQ-cWwwTW-f8d68t-f8ddu2-ewXdoz-7Ac25r-c7qyRs-9MtrPv-apyTJg-f8ssFA-f8d6Tz-cchaMu-aQNtkH-2kDHYR-f8sqwW-joeUC/

Filed Under: Embarrassing Moments, Love, Motherhood, Religion, Uncategorized Tagged With: , , , , , ,

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