We are, none of us, everything.
Not to ourselves or our spouses or our children or to anyone who we love.
I'm reminded of this forcibly when my 2-year old's face crashes because I can't pick her up. Baby brother in one arm and three or four grocery bags in the other, walking through the middle of the parking lot, it's an impossibility. I cannot do it.
I hate that, those moments where I know what they need and I know what they want and I still can't do it, the moments where I have to look into their eyes and say, "Mommy can't right now," and I know they don't understand.
They need everything. They need to be held by arms stronger than mine, cared for by someone more patient than I am, fed and clothed and hugged by someone with infinite energy.
That's not me.
And so I choose, here and there, the things I'm good at and the things I like and the things I feel called to, and I try to become good at giving those things. I try to let the rest go, to know that Daddy and Jesus can meet the needs I cannot meet. All the same, in this torn ragged world we live in, I know that some needs, some important needs even, will go unmet.
I can be everything to no one. And so I strive to do a few things well, knowing all the while that they need everything and I can't give them that, no matter how much I would if I could.
May I point them to Jesus, who has already given it all! May one of the things I learn to do well be directing their eyes to his and teaching them to see! May they have receptive hearts to see and hear and understand!
Linking with Emily today.
25 October 2012
01 September 2012
Waking Up
I happened on an article over at SheLoves Magazine this morning. "Wake up," it says in essence, and it made me feel inferior. "Not good enough, not doing enough," ran through my mind, tumbling over themselves and making me wonder why I'm not more, not called to more, not doing more right now.
It's not that I don't have big ideas, I reminded myself, defending myself. And, unlike some, I'm not afraid of them, or at least I'm more afraid of not pursuing them than I am of putting myself out there and trying. I have a vision for writing more, and of actually bringing in enough money that way that I don't have to teach or do anything else.
And then, by grace, I became aware of my thoughts, of what I was saying to myself, and I couldn't stop them but I could watch them as they passed and I could think.
(There's such a thing as thinking too much, but sometimes thinking saves me, too.)
Waking up doesn't always mean doing more. It doesn't mean feeling like I have to be more, like I wish I'd been given more, like there's some tantalizing carrot hanging out there for me, if only I could find it.
Waking up can mean relishing the life that I have. It can mean seeing the delight in my girl's face as she sticks foam jungle stickers to her paper and tells me a rambling story about the elephant. It can mean working (not-so-hard) to make the boy grin the grin that looks like it wants to go wider than his face.
I can't explain how much I feel called to Be Here Now, to live the life I've been given instead of trying to live one that isn't mine right now. The call is to awaken, to savor, to rise up and inhabit the space I've been given in a true way instead of passing through it on my way to something better.
“When sleeping women wake, mountains move.” It's true, I suspect, but sometimes the mountain isn't where I expect it to be. Sometimes it's my own heart, sometimes it's the thing that looks like a molehill but that I keep stumbling up against anyway.
"Wake up!" is truth, but so is "Listen!". What it means for one to wake up isn't what it means for another, and doesn't have to be what it means for me. Every call is grace. Every single one, and the smallness or the bigness of it doesn't matter, isn't even seen from an eternal perspective. It's the following that matters, the following that makes us whole.
It's not that I don't have big ideas, I reminded myself, defending myself. And, unlike some, I'm not afraid of them, or at least I'm more afraid of not pursuing them than I am of putting myself out there and trying. I have a vision for writing more, and of actually bringing in enough money that way that I don't have to teach or do anything else.
And then, by grace, I became aware of my thoughts, of what I was saying to myself, and I couldn't stop them but I could watch them as they passed and I could think.
(There's such a thing as thinking too much, but sometimes thinking saves me, too.)
Waking up doesn't always mean doing more. It doesn't mean feeling like I have to be more, like I wish I'd been given more, like there's some tantalizing carrot hanging out there for me, if only I could find it.
Waking up can mean relishing the life that I have. It can mean seeing the delight in my girl's face as she sticks foam jungle stickers to her paper and tells me a rambling story about the elephant. It can mean working (not-so-hard) to make the boy grin the grin that looks like it wants to go wider than his face.
I can't explain how much I feel called to Be Here Now, to live the life I've been given instead of trying to live one that isn't mine right now. The call is to awaken, to savor, to rise up and inhabit the space I've been given in a true way instead of passing through it on my way to something better.
“When sleeping women wake, mountains move.” It's true, I suspect, but sometimes the mountain isn't where I expect it to be. Sometimes it's my own heart, sometimes it's the thing that looks like a molehill but that I keep stumbling up against anyway.
"Wake up!" is truth, but so is "Listen!". What it means for one to wake up isn't what it means for another, and doesn't have to be what it means for me. Every call is grace. Every single one, and the smallness or the bigness of it doesn't matter, isn't even seen from an eternal perspective. It's the following that matters, the following that makes us whole.
28 August 2012
Connecting the Pieces
These days are about making connections, putting together the pieces of my life. I twist them and turn them, finding the ways that they fit together best. It's like a puzzle without a single answer, where the pieces are always changing shape and needing to be moved again.
I wish I was a Benedictine, sometimes, with my routine set and most of my days looking roughly the same. I'm a creature of predictability, thriving when I know I have a schedule I can rely on. I want a steady rhythm to my days, and instead I have a wandering flow.
But there's a rhythm here, too. Not, maybe, of the traditional kind, though there are still enough hours in every day for work, for my soul, for my family, and for rest. And if the days aren't rhythmed, the weeks often are. The same tasks are done, just not always in the same places.
I find myself doing a lot more listening, these days, to God and to myself. When I listen, I know what comes next, what to do with these few minutes here and those over there. I know what is important when, and everything eventually gets done without any piece starving.
I know what it's like to starve, to feel hungry for 10 minutes alone because I've pushed myself to work through all the open space in my days. It's insistent and snappish, this hunger, and it doesn't go away for ignoring it or telling it to wait a couple of years. So I take time, here and there, as soul and spirit call, and find my work and family better for it.
Nothing feels completed these days, not most of the time. Laundry is done in fits and spurts, often over several days. Work is finished piecemeal, and even prayer serves the desperate interruptions of waking kiddos. But life is not about finding answers and maybe we are never really done, anyway.
I wish I was a Benedictine, sometimes, with my routine set and most of my days looking roughly the same. I'm a creature of predictability, thriving when I know I have a schedule I can rely on. I want a steady rhythm to my days, and instead I have a wandering flow.
But there's a rhythm here, too. Not, maybe, of the traditional kind, though there are still enough hours in every day for work, for my soul, for my family, and for rest. And if the days aren't rhythmed, the weeks often are. The same tasks are done, just not always in the same places.
I find myself doing a lot more listening, these days, to God and to myself. When I listen, I know what comes next, what to do with these few minutes here and those over there. I know what is important when, and everything eventually gets done without any piece starving.
I know what it's like to starve, to feel hungry for 10 minutes alone because I've pushed myself to work through all the open space in my days. It's insistent and snappish, this hunger, and it doesn't go away for ignoring it or telling it to wait a couple of years. So I take time, here and there, as soul and spirit call, and find my work and family better for it.
Nothing feels completed these days, not most of the time. Laundry is done in fits and spurts, often over several days. Work is finished piecemeal, and even prayer serves the desperate interruptions of waking kiddos. But life is not about finding answers and maybe we are never really done, anyway.
23 August 2012
Etching
I went away and came back with words written on my arm. They're in me now, in my skin, the skin that is me, and that's how I want it. I need them close, need to see them every day, so that I can live them and breathe them until they're more a part of me than my skin.
She saw them almost as soon as she saw me. "I want you to talk about the words on your arm," she said, and so I did. Happily. (And yes, she can have some of her own someday, with my blessing.)
I told her where the words came from, how Dame Julian loved God so much that she went to live alone so she could talk to Him all the time, and how she wanted to share God with other people, too, and so she wrote. Some of what she wrote, one small part, began to etch itself on my heart the first time I read it. "All shall be well . . . "
Then I told her how T.S. Eliot borrowed the Dame's words and added to their beauty, if that's even possible. And still they called to me.
And then my season of worry, of anxiety and learning how children make me vulnerable and fighting to come to terms with that. This season of knowing, eventually, that I have so much and that I cannot live on the edge it all hangs on. And these words, they remind me . . . remind me to return to myself, to my family and the kids, that I don't need to be afraid and so I can stay here, find gratefulness, and remember my calm.
I wanted them before my eyes, wanted them closer to me than I could get with writing them on paper or putting them in my phone, and so I had them inked under my skin. Already they help me breathe, help me remember and reorient in a way that nothing else has.
She doesn't understand, not yet, but she keeps asking for the story. I tell it, like I tell her the story on my icon and read her Bible stories, because I know understanding will grow as she does. And maybe, with these words etched on my arm and etching themselves on my heart, she will grow up breathing them like she breathes air.
She saw them almost as soon as she saw me. "I want you to talk about the words on your arm," she said, and so I did. Happily. (And yes, she can have some of her own someday, with my blessing.)
I told her where the words came from, how Dame Julian loved God so much that she went to live alone so she could talk to Him all the time, and how she wanted to share God with other people, too, and so she wrote. Some of what she wrote, one small part, began to etch itself on my heart the first time I read it. "All shall be well . . . "
Then I told her how T.S. Eliot borrowed the Dame's words and added to their beauty, if that's even possible. And still they called to me.
And then my season of worry, of anxiety and learning how children make me vulnerable and fighting to come to terms with that. This season of knowing, eventually, that I have so much and that I cannot live on the edge it all hangs on. And these words, they remind me . . . remind me to return to myself, to my family and the kids, that I don't need to be afraid and so I can stay here, find gratefulness, and remember my calm.
I wanted them before my eyes, wanted them closer to me than I could get with writing them on paper or putting them in my phone, and so I had them inked under my skin. Already they help me breathe, help me remember and reorient in a way that nothing else has.
She doesn't understand, not yet, but she keeps asking for the story. I tell it, like I tell her the story on my icon and read her Bible stories, because I know understanding will grow as she does. And maybe, with these words etched on my arm and etching themselves on my heart, she will grow up breathing them like she breathes air.
20 August 2012
Entwined
He's in my arms, and we call him "Teef!" now, because he once was
"Toof!" and now he has another and he's working on at least two more.
This scrambling, scrabbling, forever-moving piece of humanity, and right
now he needs to be contained. He needs these mama-arms to tell him it's
okay, the teeth will come in eventually and, meanwhile, I'm here, to
hold and love and offer what comfort is possible when blunt enamel
objects are trying to push through human flesh.
"It will get better," I whisper in the little ears, and it will, at least until the next set is ready to push its way through. And isn't that life? I wait and wait for a breath, for that place of peace and still waters, but instead I'm often fielding fly balls that feel like they're being shot at me by flailing machine gunners.
I think about the Psalms, how there's no fear in a place where there should be fear, and how the banqueting table is set when we should be on guard. Waiting for peace means we'll wait for a long time, means we'll always be waiting because this life isn't meant for peace, isn't a place of peace unless we find it amidst the chaos. If only we can learn to find it there . . .
So I sing to him, the old songs of faith, the ones he might not otherwise learn because we don't sing them so often in church now. And we walk and rock and look out the windows and I hope it helps, at least a little. The old words, the ones I think I've always known, they wrap around us and entwine themselves the way he entwines his fingers in my shirt and my hair, and I wonder how much they carry us without our knowing.
There's peace in the singing. He calms, though stays entwined, and I wonder if there's a way here, to find sure footing amongst the tumult and the forever-shifting. Words, rhythms, and a melody I know, and the way it entwines itself and me, the singer, to something larger than I know. We are an island of peace in the midst of his pain. It doesn't feel like the place for a feast and yet we have all we need, in this moment, and more than enough.
"It will get better," I whisper in the little ears, and it will, at least until the next set is ready to push its way through. And isn't that life? I wait and wait for a breath, for that place of peace and still waters, but instead I'm often fielding fly balls that feel like they're being shot at me by flailing machine gunners.
I think about the Psalms, how there's no fear in a place where there should be fear, and how the banqueting table is set when we should be on guard. Waiting for peace means we'll wait for a long time, means we'll always be waiting because this life isn't meant for peace, isn't a place of peace unless we find it amidst the chaos. If only we can learn to find it there . . .
So I sing to him, the old songs of faith, the ones he might not otherwise learn because we don't sing them so often in church now. And we walk and rock and look out the windows and I hope it helps, at least a little. The old words, the ones I think I've always known, they wrap around us and entwine themselves the way he entwines his fingers in my shirt and my hair, and I wonder how much they carry us without our knowing.
There's peace in the singing. He calms, though stays entwined, and I wonder if there's a way here, to find sure footing amongst the tumult and the forever-shifting. Words, rhythms, and a melody I know, and the way it entwines itself and me, the singer, to something larger than I know. We are an island of peace in the midst of his pain. It doesn't feel like the place for a feast and yet we have all we need, in this moment, and more than enough.
07 August 2012
Good Work, Good Dreams
They took a mole off my stomach, almost 3 weeks ago now. "Probably nothing," they told me, and I did my best to believe them. I believed and believed and believed until they didn't call and another day passed and I called them.
"We haven't heard," they said, and they thought it was odd but they wouldn't call to check on it and wouldn't tell me if they thought it meant anything. And immediately my teething-tired mama brain went to the worst. "Melanoma" was what they were screening for, and what if. . . what if it was the worst, the weird one, the looks-like-nothing-but-it's-going-to-kill-you variety, this mole of mine? What then?
Then my kids would watch me suffer and struggle, and they might watch me die. Then their childhoods would be changed forever, taken in many ways, and they'd have to deal with things that are wrong, that little hearts and minds can't process. And that would be the worst, worse than being sick, than dying even - the knowing that this would change them forever and probably not in good ways.
Having little kids is hard. They're underfoot and needy, the most demanding when they've deprived you of the sleep you need to love them with calmness and fortitude. They're volatile and over-dramatic and everything is the. end. of. the. world.
They're also lovely, of course, when they curl up next to you or calm at your touch, and I love the moments when you can see the synapses connecting because they've just come up with something you've never seen in them before. But we've been living in the hard, lately, in the not-sharing, too-many-teeth-coming-in-too-fast, let's-yell-just-because-we-can days that all kids seem to go through when you're most longing for them to be angelic, or at least reasonable.
And I've wondered if this is really where I'm supposed to be. I don't function well on little sleep, and my hypersensitive senses reel with the pitch of whining and complaining. I've wondered if back-to-work would be better, because even when adult interaction sucks it usually doesn't involve asking someone, for the 39th time in an hour, to replace screaming with a quiet "Please".
But then the mole and the waiting and the using all my energy to still a panic that could rise at any time, and somewhere in there a deep, settled knowledge that I Like This Life. I don't like the trying to keep my cool when all I want is 30 consecutive seconds without any yelling, nor the incessant whining, nor the teething, but I like what we're building. The big picture is a blessing: these children, even in these days, and the life we're building together.
News came back good: the best, in fact. It's nothing, and they still don't know why the lab was slow. And news in my heart was better, this knowing beyond anything that this is where I want to be. Maybe someday the double-rainbow days will come but even if they don't, I will work to overcome myself and make a haven for their hearts. I will do the work, because it's work I want to do.
"We haven't heard," they said, and they thought it was odd but they wouldn't call to check on it and wouldn't tell me if they thought it meant anything. And immediately my teething-tired mama brain went to the worst. "Melanoma" was what they were screening for, and what if. . . what if it was the worst, the weird one, the looks-like-nothing-but-it's-going-to-kill-you variety, this mole of mine? What then?
Then my kids would watch me suffer and struggle, and they might watch me die. Then their childhoods would be changed forever, taken in many ways, and they'd have to deal with things that are wrong, that little hearts and minds can't process. And that would be the worst, worse than being sick, than dying even - the knowing that this would change them forever and probably not in good ways.
Having little kids is hard. They're underfoot and needy, the most demanding when they've deprived you of the sleep you need to love them with calmness and fortitude. They're volatile and over-dramatic and everything is the. end. of. the. world.
They're also lovely, of course, when they curl up next to you or calm at your touch, and I love the moments when you can see the synapses connecting because they've just come up with something you've never seen in them before. But we've been living in the hard, lately, in the not-sharing, too-many-teeth-coming-in-too-fast, let's-yell-just-because-we-can days that all kids seem to go through when you're most longing for them to be angelic, or at least reasonable.
And I've wondered if this is really where I'm supposed to be. I don't function well on little sleep, and my hypersensitive senses reel with the pitch of whining and complaining. I've wondered if back-to-work would be better, because even when adult interaction sucks it usually doesn't involve asking someone, for the 39th time in an hour, to replace screaming with a quiet "Please".
But then the mole and the waiting and the using all my energy to still a panic that could rise at any time, and somewhere in there a deep, settled knowledge that I Like This Life. I don't like the trying to keep my cool when all I want is 30 consecutive seconds without any yelling, nor the incessant whining, nor the teething, but I like what we're building. The big picture is a blessing: these children, even in these days, and the life we're building together.
News came back good: the best, in fact. It's nothing, and they still don't know why the lab was slow. And news in my heart was better, this knowing beyond anything that this is where I want to be. Maybe someday the double-rainbow days will come but even if they don't, I will work to overcome myself and make a haven for their hearts. I will do the work, because it's work I want to do.
04 July 2012
The Ubiquitous Message
Before I jump any farther into my thoughts on dreams and following them and what it all means, I want to talk a bit about the message I keep hearing. It's important to me to articulate what I'm hearing, both so moves from subconscious to conscious in myself, and so that we're all on the same page as we begin this exploration.
I feel bombarded with people saying "Follow your dreams." It's more than just that, though, more than something that reduces to "Follow your heart," though that's definitely a part of it. I hear that I'm supposed to follow my dreams so that I can be sure to contribute to the world and, more specifically, so that I can contribute what I am meant to contribute, or made to contribute, or supposed to contribute, or contribute something that the world won't have if I don't follow my dreams.
This message implies that my purpose in life is hidden in my dreams, that my dreams indicate my calling, that where my heart wants to go is where I should go, and that, therefore, everyone else in my life either needs to come along with me or be left behind. It implies that God speaks to me in my dreams or, if from a secular source, that the universe or some larger source communicates my purpose to me that way, or I hear a larger need and that forms my purpose, or something like that. It's a combination of internal and external forces, though, that dictate what I want to do.
Along these lines, while following my dreams is not supposed to be easy, it is somehow supposed to work out eventually, if I fully give myself to the dream, continue to pursue it despite opposition, believe in it, and maintain suitable levels of passion for it. Because it is what I am supposed to do, God will eventually move or the universe will eventually align in such a way that I will find some measure of success when it comes to my dreams and my contribution to the world (though this can be defined in many different ways).
In addition to hearing that I should follow my dreams, I also hear that I will not be happy until I do so, that doing so is the only way to find fulfillment, and that I will end my life with regret if I don't follow my dreams. I hear that I have the choice to truly live or just to exist, and that I can never enter my "real life" without following my dreams.
I hear that there is much to get in the way of following dreams. Things like fear, resistance, and distraction can keep me from this true purpose and calling, and if I give into them I will never reach my potential, give the world what I have to offer, or find happiness in life.
In fact, there's often implied threat in all this talk of dreams - something like "If you don't follow your dreams, you'll be unhappy and unfulfilled for the rest of your life," or "If you choose not to pursue your dreams, you're giving into fear and disappointing God."
This seems like the dark underbelly of this message. Following my dreams, as it turns out, is not just about my own and the world's fulfillment, but also about avoiding pain, disappointment, ambiguity, confusion, shame and a host of other negative emotions that could arise in me if I don't do these things that I'm made to do. I don't know if this threat is meant to motivate me, or is just articulating the natural consequences of not following my dreams, but it almost always seems to be part of the message I'm hearing.
Alongside this, there is also a distinct "should" here (though this isn't present in all the versions of the mandate to follow dreams) - I should try to do what I dream of doing, for all the reasons that I'm teasing out here.
There's also usually a part of this message that has to do with faith and trust - mostly in myself, but also in God or the universe or some other sort of higher power. I'm to trust that I'm hearing my dreams accurately, that what I want to do or feel pulled towards doing is, in fact, what I should be doing. I'm to believe that I have what it takes, that I am enough to make my dreams happen, sometimes alongside God or the universe or some conglomeration of the force of all things. There's faith that God is communicating with me, that he is telling me how to work and move in this world via my dreams, and that he will eventually make me successful if I choose to believe that these dreams are the way I'm to contribute to the world.
This is the message that I'm hearing, over and over, from both secular and Christian sources. As you read this, what do you think? Do you hear the same message? Is there anything you would add or take away? Am I being fair in my portrayal of what I'm hearing? Let me know what you think.
I feel bombarded with people saying "Follow your dreams." It's more than just that, though, more than something that reduces to "Follow your heart," though that's definitely a part of it. I hear that I'm supposed to follow my dreams so that I can be sure to contribute to the world and, more specifically, so that I can contribute what I am meant to contribute, or made to contribute, or supposed to contribute, or contribute something that the world won't have if I don't follow my dreams.
This message implies that my purpose in life is hidden in my dreams, that my dreams indicate my calling, that where my heart wants to go is where I should go, and that, therefore, everyone else in my life either needs to come along with me or be left behind. It implies that God speaks to me in my dreams or, if from a secular source, that the universe or some larger source communicates my purpose to me that way, or I hear a larger need and that forms my purpose, or something like that. It's a combination of internal and external forces, though, that dictate what I want to do.
Along these lines, while following my dreams is not supposed to be easy, it is somehow supposed to work out eventually, if I fully give myself to the dream, continue to pursue it despite opposition, believe in it, and maintain suitable levels of passion for it. Because it is what I am supposed to do, God will eventually move or the universe will eventually align in such a way that I will find some measure of success when it comes to my dreams and my contribution to the world (though this can be defined in many different ways).
In addition to hearing that I should follow my dreams, I also hear that I will not be happy until I do so, that doing so is the only way to find fulfillment, and that I will end my life with regret if I don't follow my dreams. I hear that I have the choice to truly live or just to exist, and that I can never enter my "real life" without following my dreams.
I hear that there is much to get in the way of following dreams. Things like fear, resistance, and distraction can keep me from this true purpose and calling, and if I give into them I will never reach my potential, give the world what I have to offer, or find happiness in life.
In fact, there's often implied threat in all this talk of dreams - something like "If you don't follow your dreams, you'll be unhappy and unfulfilled for the rest of your life," or "If you choose not to pursue your dreams, you're giving into fear and disappointing God."
This seems like the dark underbelly of this message. Following my dreams, as it turns out, is not just about my own and the world's fulfillment, but also about avoiding pain, disappointment, ambiguity, confusion, shame and a host of other negative emotions that could arise in me if I don't do these things that I'm made to do. I don't know if this threat is meant to motivate me, or is just articulating the natural consequences of not following my dreams, but it almost always seems to be part of the message I'm hearing.
Alongside this, there is also a distinct "should" here (though this isn't present in all the versions of the mandate to follow dreams) - I should try to do what I dream of doing, for all the reasons that I'm teasing out here.
There's also usually a part of this message that has to do with faith and trust - mostly in myself, but also in God or the universe or some other sort of higher power. I'm to trust that I'm hearing my dreams accurately, that what I want to do or feel pulled towards doing is, in fact, what I should be doing. I'm to believe that I have what it takes, that I am enough to make my dreams happen, sometimes alongside God or the universe or some conglomeration of the force of all things. There's faith that God is communicating with me, that he is telling me how to work and move in this world via my dreams, and that he will eventually make me successful if I choose to believe that these dreams are the way I'm to contribute to the world.
This is the message that I'm hearing, over and over, from both secular and Christian sources. As you read this, what do you think? Do you hear the same message? Is there anything you would add or take away? Am I being fair in my portrayal of what I'm hearing? Let me know what you think.
01 July 2012
Coming Home
I've been away from this space for a while now. I've missed it, and I've tried to come back and just haven't been able to.
The truth is, I've been struggling with what this blog is for me, with what I want it to be, and with what it means to have an online presence and what I want to do with that.
I came up with an idea for a new blog, a blog that would focus on communicating truths that I've long believed need to be shared and discussed and put out there for people to hear and ponder. I put a good deal of work into this new blog. I got a domain and worked on a theme and wrote a handful I posts and the text for an ebook. I fell more and more in love with my idea, with the people who would come there (even though I don't know them yet), with the freedom and community people might find there.
And yet, as much love and passion as I have and as much as I believe that the message of this new space is one that is mine to convey, is part of what I have to offer the world, I couldn't bring myself to start the blog. I had the value of the message and even of myself as messenger validated in a myriad of ways, but I kept not starting it.
I became frustrated with myself. I didn't want to let fear hold me back, and yet what else could it be? What else could keep my mind from sending the message that would allow me to hit 'Enter' and launch the whole thing?
As the days passed, I tried to figure out what, exactly, was going on in my mind. I felt like I needed to understand, so that I could combat it, so I could do effective battle against my fear and get the job done.
What I discovered was fear and more than fear. And it all led me back to some questions that are old and familiar to me, and to which I've never found satisfactory answers. These questions center around the role that our dreams take in our lives, whether we have to follow them to really live and to make God happy with us, and whether we're living some sort of a lesser life if we choose not to pursue our dreams, fail at them, or for whatever reason don't have the opportunity to do so.
These are the questions that I'm coming back to this place to discuss. I'm not sure if these posts will be organized enough to be called a series, so I guess it's more of an exploration. If you're so inclined, Is love to have you along for this ride. Let's go exploring together.
10 April 2012
Enough
Third grade. Summer camp. To be able to access the pool, swimmers had to prove they could tread water for at least a minute (maybe two?). The only problem? I had never treaded water before in my life. Somehow, through swimming lesson after swimming lesson, no one had taught me this basic skill.
I literally threw myself into the deep end of the pool. Somehow, I managed to keep my head above water for the requisite amount of time. To this day, I'm not sure how I did it. Swimming skill combined with pure determination is the best I can come up with.
Turns out, that was good practice for . . . life, I guess.
It doesn't feel like there's enough of anything in my life right now - not enough time, not enough energy, not enough money, nor enough sleep. I feel like I can't possibly spend enough time with my kids, and yet there's so much more to be done. Dishes are a necessity and, when you find yourself trying not to swear in front of the children for the fourth time in an hour because you stepped on something pointy or yucky, vacuuming is, too.
And all of that is before the necessities of my own soul: the words I have to write because doing so helps keep order in my mind, the few minutes of quiet that I must have because I don't function well when my brain is always abuzz, the exercise that often feels like a waste of time but that keeps me positive and healthy and so much more whole.
People tell me I'm doing a lot, and I can see how that would look true, but I feel like I'm just treading water. Not drowning, not racing, just staying afloat. And I don't always know if I'm even going to do that.
Sometimes, it's that day in third grade all over again. I fling myself into life and just hope, hope, hope that I can do enough to keep us all sane. As I do this over and over and over again, though, I'm coming to trust the process, and not just what my eyes can see. When I look out over everything, it's too much. But when I narrow my focus and look at the next thing, then the next and the next and the next, I get through what needs to be done.
I'm coming to see the gift of a day, of 24 hours. It's not enough time to do everything, but it's plenty for the things that matter most, the ones I'm actually called to.
There is enough time, when I don't cram in things that aren't mine to do.
There is enough rest, when I take the opportunities for it when they come.
There is enough energy, when I choose carefully how I'll spend it.
I've been given enough of everything, but it takes faith to believe that's true when it seems so false.
I literally threw myself into the deep end of the pool. Somehow, I managed to keep my head above water for the requisite amount of time. To this day, I'm not sure how I did it. Swimming skill combined with pure determination is the best I can come up with.
Turns out, that was good practice for . . . life, I guess.
It doesn't feel like there's enough of anything in my life right now - not enough time, not enough energy, not enough money, nor enough sleep. I feel like I can't possibly spend enough time with my kids, and yet there's so much more to be done. Dishes are a necessity and, when you find yourself trying not to swear in front of the children for the fourth time in an hour because you stepped on something pointy or yucky, vacuuming is, too.
And all of that is before the necessities of my own soul: the words I have to write because doing so helps keep order in my mind, the few minutes of quiet that I must have because I don't function well when my brain is always abuzz, the exercise that often feels like a waste of time but that keeps me positive and healthy and so much more whole.
People tell me I'm doing a lot, and I can see how that would look true, but I feel like I'm just treading water. Not drowning, not racing, just staying afloat. And I don't always know if I'm even going to do that.
Sometimes, it's that day in third grade all over again. I fling myself into life and just hope, hope, hope that I can do enough to keep us all sane. As I do this over and over and over again, though, I'm coming to trust the process, and not just what my eyes can see. When I look out over everything, it's too much. But when I narrow my focus and look at the next thing, then the next and the next and the next, I get through what needs to be done.
I'm coming to see the gift of a day, of 24 hours. It's not enough time to do everything, but it's plenty for the things that matter most, the ones I'm actually called to.
There is enough time, when I don't cram in things that aren't mine to do.
There is enough rest, when I take the opportunities for it when they come.
There is enough energy, when I choose carefully how I'll spend it.
I've been given enough of everything, but it takes faith to believe that's true when it seems so false.
06 April 2012
Light . . .
What brings light? That's essentially the question I've been asking myself in these long months since baby boy was born. What brings light? To me, to my children, to my family, to those around me.
I find different answers than what I'd expected.
Light comes when I offer my kids what I have, what I'm strong in and good at, and offer God the rest. I'm good at reading stories, talking about feelings, holding kiddos close, explaining things in ways they can understand and helping them pretend. I'm not so good at arranging play dates, getting us out of the house, and always being gentle. And that's ok, because God holds us all, and I will never be more than human.
Light comes when I walk away from the shoulds to pursue the things that give me life. I don't cook and clean much these days, but I play with kids, teach my classes, take some quiet time, and write.
Light comes when I put words to page, even when they're scattered and few and I don't know if they mean what I want them to mean.
Light comes when I work my body hard, when I don't shove personal wellness to the bottom of my to-do list because everyone else has needs I want to meet.
I'm breaking my silence here to join The Gypsy Mama for Five Minute Friday. Today's prompt is "light".
I find different answers than what I'd expected.
Light comes when I offer my kids what I have, what I'm strong in and good at, and offer God the rest. I'm good at reading stories, talking about feelings, holding kiddos close, explaining things in ways they can understand and helping them pretend. I'm not so good at arranging play dates, getting us out of the house, and always being gentle. And that's ok, because God holds us all, and I will never be more than human.
Light comes when I walk away from the shoulds to pursue the things that give me life. I don't cook and clean much these days, but I play with kids, teach my classes, take some quiet time, and write.
Light comes when I put words to page, even when they're scattered and few and I don't know if they mean what I want them to mean.
Light comes when I work my body hard, when I don't shove personal wellness to the bottom of my to-do list because everyone else has needs I want to meet.
I'm breaking my silence here to join The Gypsy Mama for Five Minute Friday. Today's prompt is "light".
09 February 2012
Jumbled Thoughts on This Tightrope Life
Finally, a spare moment to write, and she starts talking over the monitor. I wonder if she'll last until I can marshall some order to these words, and if it's fair to ask her to.
I'm tempted to feel pushed to the margins of my own life, sometimes, like the things that value most to me get the least time right now, because of kids and teaching and being a wife.* Tempted, I say, because this IS my life. The diapering-feeding-sweeping-washing-reading out loud-cleaning spit-up off the sofa again-all of it. It's not glorious and it doesn't make for feeling significant or important, but it's my life.
It's the life I chose and the life I was given. Wishes, here, have become horses, and so beggars must ride, whether that means holding on for a pell-mell run over rough terrain or trying not to fall asleep after hours in the saddle when everything looks the same.
There's a balance, I know. My heart matters, even when there are a million things that legitimately need to be done before I do the things that nurture it the most. Sometimes, though, it's not a matter of not leaving room for self-care, but of looking up from the tasks that must be done to achieve basic living and realizing it's time for bed.
Jesus calls us to give up our selves, but to give up a self, you must have a self in the first place. To give myself to the tasks Jesus has called me to, I must know what the other things are, too. I must know the things that are for later, for when the kids are older, for a time when I'm not up at night feeding the baby and teaching two classes on top of (still) getting used to being a mother of two.
There's enough time in a day for everything I'm legitimately called to. I don't believe God calls us to more than will fit into our days, if we're faithful to spend our time well. That includes rest, by the way. And so I trust him with my heart, trust that he'll make time for me when I don't see a way.
She's still talking, by the way, happy as a little bird. I'll get her, now, and know that this time was a gift straight from his heart to mine
* There should be a word for that. Wife-ing? Maybe there is one and I don't know what it is. That's entirely possible.
***
I'm tempted to feel pushed to the margins of my own life, sometimes, like the things that value most to me get the least time right now, because of kids and teaching and being a wife.* Tempted, I say, because this IS my life. The diapering-feeding-sweeping-washing-reading out loud-cleaning spit-up off the sofa again-all of it. It's not glorious and it doesn't make for feeling significant or important, but it's my life.
It's the life I chose and the life I was given. Wishes, here, have become horses, and so beggars must ride, whether that means holding on for a pell-mell run over rough terrain or trying not to fall asleep after hours in the saddle when everything looks the same.
***
There's a balance, I know. My heart matters, even when there are a million things that legitimately need to be done before I do the things that nurture it the most. Sometimes, though, it's not a matter of not leaving room for self-care, but of looking up from the tasks that must be done to achieve basic living and realizing it's time for bed.
Jesus calls us to give up our selves, but to give up a self, you must have a self in the first place. To give myself to the tasks Jesus has called me to, I must know what the other things are, too. I must know the things that are for later, for when the kids are older, for a time when I'm not up at night feeding the baby and teaching two classes on top of (still) getting used to being a mother of two.
***
There's enough time in a day for everything I'm legitimately called to. I don't believe God calls us to more than will fit into our days, if we're faithful to spend our time well. That includes rest, by the way. And so I trust him with my heart, trust that he'll make time for me when I don't see a way.
***
She's still talking, by the way, happy as a little bird. I'll get her, now, and know that this time was a gift straight from his heart to mine
* There should be a word for that. Wife-ing? Maybe there is one and I don't know what it is. That's entirely possible.
01 February 2012
Growing Up
Time wings by, passing us unless we mark it somehow. He's more than two months now, and the early days, the ones everyone tells you to hold onto, are going and gone, and me with vague impressions in my head of smiles and coos. Already, too-small clothes pile up and I try to face truth that I may never see a child of mine in them again.
And she's two years, and I wonder where the hours are. I feel there must be a pile, somewhere, of seconds and minutes that I missed. We couldn't possibly have lived enough of them for her to be so big.
Time passes, and I can try to hold onto it or I can look at their faces now. I can wonder what I missed, which precious moments didn't get catalogued by photograph or memory, or I can look at what I have, at what my hands hold now, and marvel.
Moments weren't meant to be held. A few, perhaps, we'll cradle forever, but most of them are meant to be lived. I mean the bad ones, too, the ones where she learns she's not part of me and two asserts itself with a vengeance, and the ones where tummy aches keep him awake and tired baby eyes beseech the world for sleep.
Stopping time would be a luxury, but it would also be a curse. I could hold the moments I want to remember, have enough time in them to write them down or take that picture or build an altar. But how to know when to stop the clock? What if the next ones would get even better? And, oh, the agony of choosing to start time again, not knowing what's ahead.
And so we go through life, unable to skirt around the edges even if we want to. For truly living isn't just making memories, it's also marching through the unmemorable and choosing to continue, and it's knowing that we can't hold onto everything we love, that not even our memories are entirely our own.
And she's two years, and I wonder where the hours are. I feel there must be a pile, somewhere, of seconds and minutes that I missed. We couldn't possibly have lived enough of them for her to be so big.
Time passes, and I can try to hold onto it or I can look at their faces now. I can wonder what I missed, which precious moments didn't get catalogued by photograph or memory, or I can look at what I have, at what my hands hold now, and marvel.
Moments weren't meant to be held. A few, perhaps, we'll cradle forever, but most of them are meant to be lived. I mean the bad ones, too, the ones where she learns she's not part of me and two asserts itself with a vengeance, and the ones where tummy aches keep him awake and tired baby eyes beseech the world for sleep.
Stopping time would be a luxury, but it would also be a curse. I could hold the moments I want to remember, have enough time in them to write them down or take that picture or build an altar. But how to know when to stop the clock? What if the next ones would get even better? And, oh, the agony of choosing to start time again, not knowing what's ahead.
And so we go through life, unable to skirt around the edges even if we want to. For truly living isn't just making memories, it's also marching through the unmemorable and choosing to continue, and it's knowing that we can't hold onto everything we love, that not even our memories are entirely our own.
14 December 2011
Unto Us
This is Simon, and I have been delinquent in introducing him to the world. He was born on November 29th at 10:53pm, after 2 hours of labor and 11 minutes at the hospital (if you want to be a hospital celebrity, deliver a baby that fast! I think everyone I saw for the 36 or so hours we were there knew how fast he came!). He was 7 lbs., 1 oz., and 20 inches long (identical in size to his sister at birth, except for being 1/4 inch longer).
I will post more about him soon. For now, it's sufficient to let him nap on my chest and to enjoy his babyhood.
I will post more about him soon. For now, it's sufficient to let him nap on my chest and to enjoy his babyhood.
23 November 2011
Sometimes the Answer is Another Question
I put my order in for this week and, like those times when you ask for an Egg McMuffin and end up with a Cheeseburger, somehow it got garbled in the process. My requests were simple, I thought: 1 baby (born, healthy); 1 mama (healthy, no longer pregnant); 1 toddler (healthy, happy, loving baby brother); 1 daddy (healthy, proud).
Instead the tally seems to be 1 baby (still inside, presumed healthy); 1 mama (sick, still pregnant); 1 toddler (sick, grumpy), 1 daddy (healthy).
I keep wondering if it would do any good to go back to the drive-thru and try yelling this time.
They're little things, the ones I didn't get this week, and yet I keep finding myself upset that I didn't get them. I want this baby out like you could not possibly believe (except you can, if you've been there), I want to be able to breathe through my nose, and I want my girl to regain the ability to deal that seems to flee when she's ill.
This week, these little things mirror larger things that I prayed for over months and years when I felt like God was ignoring me. Now that things seem to be on the upswing for us, I can look back on those times with a little more clarity. A little more, but not too much.
I thought there'd be a moment of truth, a time when I'd realize why we walked through difficulty and uncertainty, when I'd see a purpose behind it all and suddenly understand. But just like I don't understand how this week turned out so opposite what I'd hoped, I don't understand why our lives had to go all topsy-turvy for 2 years.
Maybe I never will know. Maybe I'll never be able to explain to my girl why her first impressions of the world are probably so mixed and confusing. Maybe there will never be words.
I can say that, but can I live it? Questions rise up, more and more of them every time I try to make peace with that. Not just "Why?" but more detailed questions. Did I miss something? How do I know when life is just like that and when there's some sort of method to be found? I wonder why my girl's coming into the world seemed to usher in a time of pain and confusion, and my son's looks to come alongside peace and routine and rest. And on, and on.
So right now I'm sitting with questions. They're fragile, or maybe I am, because if I think on them too hard, they'll break (or maybe I will). So they sit in my hands. I poke them a little, then I walk away and come back later, only to poke again.
Will answers come from the prodding? Peace? I don't know, but I know that, just as I can't look at them too hard, I can't leave them behind, either. They're pieces of the future, I think, even though I can't see how they all fit just now. So I'll hold, look, poke, leave until something rises from their ashes.
Come, Lord Jesus.
Instead the tally seems to be 1 baby (still inside, presumed healthy); 1 mama (sick, still pregnant); 1 toddler (sick, grumpy), 1 daddy (healthy).
I keep wondering if it would do any good to go back to the drive-thru and try yelling this time.
They're little things, the ones I didn't get this week, and yet I keep finding myself upset that I didn't get them. I want this baby out like you could not possibly believe (except you can, if you've been there), I want to be able to breathe through my nose, and I want my girl to regain the ability to deal that seems to flee when she's ill.
This week, these little things mirror larger things that I prayed for over months and years when I felt like God was ignoring me. Now that things seem to be on the upswing for us, I can look back on those times with a little more clarity. A little more, but not too much.
I thought there'd be a moment of truth, a time when I'd realize why we walked through difficulty and uncertainty, when I'd see a purpose behind it all and suddenly understand. But just like I don't understand how this week turned out so opposite what I'd hoped, I don't understand why our lives had to go all topsy-turvy for 2 years.
Maybe I never will know. Maybe I'll never be able to explain to my girl why her first impressions of the world are probably so mixed and confusing. Maybe there will never be words.
I can say that, but can I live it? Questions rise up, more and more of them every time I try to make peace with that. Not just "Why?" but more detailed questions. Did I miss something? How do I know when life is just like that and when there's some sort of method to be found? I wonder why my girl's coming into the world seemed to usher in a time of pain and confusion, and my son's looks to come alongside peace and routine and rest. And on, and on.
So right now I'm sitting with questions. They're fragile, or maybe I am, because if I think on them too hard, they'll break (or maybe I will). So they sit in my hands. I poke them a little, then I walk away and come back later, only to poke again.
Will answers come from the prodding? Peace? I don't know, but I know that, just as I can't look at them too hard, I can't leave them behind, either. They're pieces of the future, I think, even though I can't see how they all fit just now. So I'll hold, look, poke, leave until something rises from their ashes.
Come, Lord Jesus.
10 November 2011
Loving the Sharp Places
It's easy, when the beautiful is her smile and the sun reflecting off her blonde hair as she runs ahead of me. And it's easy when she dances on the living room floor, just-learned jumps still wobbly but nothing half-hearted about them.
But it's different when the beautiful is tears at dinner because her olive fell apart and demands to get out of the car while it's still moving. It's different when naps don't happen and they dare change the clocks and she doesn't want to wear diapers but refuses to use the potty.
We think of beauty as the round and the smooth, with graceful edges balanced by straight lines. But beauty can be pointy, too, and sharp, and hard as a rock. Some say that isn't beauty, but when it's a little heart trying to figure out what it means to be human, what else can it be?
And so I try to love her like she's beautiful, even the hard parts. I wrap my arms around all of her, even the points and the prickles, and I hold her close to me even when she's sharp. How else will she learn of love, that it has more to do with the lover than the condition of the beloved? Because to be human is to be loved, and that's what I'd have her know more than anything else.
But it's different when the beautiful is tears at dinner because her olive fell apart and demands to get out of the car while it's still moving. It's different when naps don't happen and they dare change the clocks and she doesn't want to wear diapers but refuses to use the potty.
We think of beauty as the round and the smooth, with graceful edges balanced by straight lines. But beauty can be pointy, too, and sharp, and hard as a rock. Some say that isn't beauty, but when it's a little heart trying to figure out what it means to be human, what else can it be?
And so I try to love her like she's beautiful, even the hard parts. I wrap my arms around all of her, even the points and the prickles, and I hold her close to me even when she's sharp. How else will she learn of love, that it has more to do with the lover than the condition of the beloved? Because to be human is to be loved, and that's what I'd have her know more than anything else.
03 November 2011
When Love is Enough
At the end of a day when she didn't sleep and I needed her to, tomorrow looks like a long haul. I keep reminding myself that we're all still in transition, but what to do when I need 10 minutes away from being mama and she needs her mama now, and now, and now. The pressure is on, to get us settled before her baby brother arrives and to still meet her needs and make her smile.
Little eyes, little nose, red from crying and I can't give her what she wants because neither of us know what that is. Not up, not down, not bunny or bear, not the book, nor the baby, nor the markers and paper.
It's the intangibles that get us all, even when we're small, and sometimes being offered love just isn't enough. Sometimes we all want to run away, want to bang our heads against the wall or hold our hands in front of our faces so the world can't get in anymore. Sometimes stress settles around all of our shoulders, even the smallest ones, and we can't rest for the pressure we can't see.
I didn't want her to be like me, didn't want her to absorb emotional energy like her skin is an emotion-permeable membrane, not always able to distinguish what's mine and hers and yours and someone else's. But I think she is, dear little sensitive soul, and I feel the need to be okay so she will be okay.
There's also truth, though, and when the truth is something other than okay, I want to learn to hold that for her, as I hold her and let her fall apart in my arms.
Tiny love. Not so tiny anymore, not even the tiniest in our family, but always my little love. May you find your sleep, and may we both remember that love is enough, even when it feels like it ought to be otherwise.
Little eyes, little nose, red from crying and I can't give her what she wants because neither of us know what that is. Not up, not down, not bunny or bear, not the book, nor the baby, nor the markers and paper.
It's the intangibles that get us all, even when we're small, and sometimes being offered love just isn't enough. Sometimes we all want to run away, want to bang our heads against the wall or hold our hands in front of our faces so the world can't get in anymore. Sometimes stress settles around all of our shoulders, even the smallest ones, and we can't rest for the pressure we can't see.
I didn't want her to be like me, didn't want her to absorb emotional energy like her skin is an emotion-permeable membrane, not always able to distinguish what's mine and hers and yours and someone else's. But I think she is, dear little sensitive soul, and I feel the need to be okay so she will be okay.
There's also truth, though, and when the truth is something other than okay, I want to learn to hold that for her, as I hold her and let her fall apart in my arms.
Tiny love. Not so tiny anymore, not even the tiniest in our family, but always my little love. May you find your sleep, and may we both remember that love is enough, even when it feels like it ought to be otherwise.
24 October 2011
Not All Who Wander Are Lost (or So They Say)
More than a month (nearly two!) since I've occupied this place in any meaningful way, and so much between then and now that truly catching you up is more than I could do, because I'm not caught up yet myself. But here's the summary:
But all shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of thing shall be well. Thank God for Julian!
- a week in Nevada, at WorldCon (why, yes, we are nerds!), where we learned that toddlers and conferences are not entirely incompatible, but are also not the best-synced things on the planet
- a week in Virginia, teaching
- a week in Philadelphia, visiting friends
- a car, a train, a taxi ride, my first solo hotel-stay, another taxi ride, a bus, two airplanes, and another car ride to get home
- a phone call, in the middle of the train ride, telling me they'd offered the job we'd given up on and we had two days to decide which life we wanted
- the decision to accept the job and turn the world temporarily helter-skelter
- a whirlwind trip 50 miles away to find a place to live
- a nearly perfect house
- a phone call from the doctor (just as we were putting the deposit on the house) and a somewhat complicated situation where they thought I had gestational diabetes but I didn't
- a week of pricking my finger 4 times a day to PROVE I didn't have GD
- a fortnight with the husband only home on the weekends because he stared working before the house was available
- packing packing packing
- another pregnancy-complication scare, this time because my blood pressure skyrocketed (Lest anyone panic, it has since gone down. They took it the day before we moved . . . actually, I should just have the doctors read this list before they decide to get worried again!)
- moving moving moving
- unpacking like crazy, in case the babe decides to come early
- a toddler who doesn't do well with transitions (I'm starting to think she's a highly sensitive person, like her mama)
But all shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of thing shall be well. Thank God for Julian!
01 September 2011
Musings on Liturgy: Where Do I Go?
To whom shall we go?
You have the words of eternal life,
and we have believed, and have come to know
that You are the Holy One of God.
Praise to Thee, Lord Jesus Christ,
King of endless glory.
My head hurts today. The raging hormones of pregnancy can cause that, they say, and I suspect that pondering the future too much can, too. Not being able to take my traditional rounds of medication makes me grumpy, and when I'm grumpy too long, I go to a bad place.
Most of you reading this probably know that place, if not in your own experience, at least in your experience of other people. It's a place where life sucks and where I don't want any demands placed on me because I'm uncomfortable, darnit!, and the people around me are supposed to take care of me, not the other way around.
It's not a good place. It's not a place that makes me a better wife, mother, symbiotic host, or friend. And it's not a place from which I really want to talk to God. After all, he calls me to be more than my headache, to come out of the place where I want everyone to feel sorry for the poor pregnant woman who cannot take medicine to feel better and see where others are at, too.
And yet, where else is there to go?
The words above, part of my morning liturgy, seem like one of the most appropriate greetings for God that I've ever heard. That's the way I see them, like the words I say when I'm finally through the door, after I've stated my intention to want Him and only Him and asked that my heart be changed so that intention can be truth. Then I get to see Him, and these are the words I'm given to say.
Truly, there's nowhere else to go. Or nowhere else that it makes sense to go, anyway. In reality, we all try to go a lot of different places other than to God. People talk about these places all the time. They're the things we try to fill ourselves with, the things that actually make us more empty, and yet we return over and over again.
There's only one place we can go, but to do that we have to admit that He is God. We have to say that He is the Lord, the Son of the King and King himself, and that his perspective, the eternal one, is the one that counts to us more than anything else does. It's hard to do this, especially hard when we want our circumstances to matter more than they do, when we're demanding acknowledgement of our pain or our struggles or our unmet desires before we submit to anything.
That's not to say that these things aren't important. We need to feel our pain, and we need others to see it and speak into it. Our circumstances do matter, because that's where we're loved. And if we aren't held and loved in the places where our deep desires aren't met, we'll have holes inside that effect the rest of our lives.
These things matter, but they aren't everything. Even when we're hurting, there's more going on than our pain. There are His words of eternal life, and the knowledge that He knows us and sees us, and that our pain hurts Him, too. It's not always comforting to remember these things (in fact, it can be maddening), but keeping them in mind can change our perspective. When we see Him through our pain, we see the pain itself differently.
And so today I work to acknowledge Him. I work to love the people around me, even with their demands, because He loves them and because He loves me. And in the larger picture of our current struggles and state of unknowing about what the next few months, I try to find the joys in every day, because those are things He has given, rather than dwelling on the unknown, or the things He hasn't given.
24 August 2011
Canyon Places
We've been waiting and waiting, these last months, for the phone to ring. He's applied so many times, so many places, so many different jobs. People tell us over and over again that the market sucks, like we don't know that or it's supposed to be comforting. It's not us, nothing personal, and we don't take it that way. But you can only go so long staring at a silent phone when all you want it to do is ring before you start to wonder if you got the rules wrong, somehow, or if you're playing a different game than the rest.
And then it rings, and again and again. Three interviews in two weeks, and we were out of town for one of those. A job we really want, a job we kind-of want, and one that we'll take with joy if the others fall through. Three different industries, three different types of experience. But it's all backwards, with notifications coming in the order opposite of what would be helpful and us wondering if we're going to have to close the door on something sure because we hope for what we don't yet know. We're not sure if we can do it, if it comes to that. Not even sure we should, with two littles in the mix now and the need for at least a semblance of stability.
Sometimes I feel like I'm a player in a game that I don't understand, like if I could have the view of the chess player rather than the pawn, then it would all make sense. From where I stand, it feels backwards and inside out (or, in the words of my daughter's book, "Inside, Outside, Upside Down"). We've waited so long for any opportunity, and now we have three. Rejoice! On the other hand, we may end up choosing one that's not what we really want because we can't wait any longer to hear back from the one that's most ideal. Bah!
It's a twisty thing, this path of life, and somewhat easier, I think, if we accept that most of what we'll do is wander. There aren't many vistas, here, not many places where the clouds part and the rocks move and we get to see where we've been and how it leads to where we're going. Most of the time, I think we're in a relatively narrow canyon with high walls. It's beautiful, there, with a stream running through and trees and flowers and all the layers and layers of rock stacked to remind us that others have been by, millions and millions of times. It's beautiful, but we can't see.
This doesn't bother some people nearly as much as it bothers me. I've always wanted to see, always strived to understand more, to gain a bigger perspective. I think it's the the way my mind works, the way I was made, if you will. I don't like having pieces without a whole, don't like sifting them through my fingers without some sort of overarching reason or premise behind it all.
I want us to make the right choice, to not choose out of fear but out of wisdom. I want the pieces to fall into place, so that I know. But without the bigger perspective, I don't know if that's possible. And I wonder why he doesn't tell us more, doesn't give us what we need to know to make the right choice.
"Trust," comes to mind, and I work on that. Yet he's trusted me with so much, and it kills me to think I might not be able to make the right choice here. He'll still be there if we don't; I know that. But I don't know how much more of this wandering I can endure. Funny, that. I've always been a wandering heart. But now I want roots, a place to settle, a place and a routine that feels like home.
10 August 2011
Musings on Liturgy: Seeking Him
Call: Who is it that you seek?
Response: We seek the Lord our God.
Call: Do you seek Him with all your heart?
Response: Amen. Lord, have mercy.
Call: Do you seek Him with all your soul?
Response: Amen. Lord, have mercy.
Call: Do you seek Him with all your mind?
Response: Amen. Lord, have mercy.
Call: Do you seek Him with all your strength?
Response: Amen. Christ, have mercy.
I first came to this part of the liturgy with responses very similar to the ones I had at the last part: Do I believe this? Can I really speak these words with any sort of honesty? Is my heart so focused on one thing that He is all I seek?
Then, I noticed the response. "Amen," means (loosely translated) "Let it be." Not in the Beatles sense, though sometimes I like to think of it that way when I'm praying about things I need to let go of. No, it means "Let it be," in the sense of, "May this be true. May reality match the words I've just spoken." And in that sense, I can pray these words all day long.
But that's just the first part. The second, "Lord, have mercy . . . Christ, have mercy," is the ages-old kyrie. Mercy, mercy, we all need mercy. Every minute of every day, we only live because mercy falls from heaven. It's no different when the acts that need mercy are all of the times, each day, when I seek something other than Him with some part of my being.
And so the caller asks questions that very few people, if anyone, can truly say "Yes," to. But we can all say, "May that be true of me, and may the Lord have mercy on me when it is not."
___
There's an image that often comes to mind when I speak these words. There's a door (and in case you have a vivid imagination like I do, it's to a cave that looks something like Obi Wan's from Star Wars), and I'm standing outside of it. I start the liturgy in God's name, announcing, even if only to myself, my intentions to enter that place and find Jesus. Then I speak the "One Thing" words, which are my way of knocking, of announcing my presence to those who guard the door.
When someone answers the door, they welcome me into a sparse stone vestibule and begin to question. "Who do you seek?" they ask, and I tell them. The questions, while I suppose they would weed out those who had truly come to the wrong place, are more like serious reminders of where I am and what I am doing there. "Are you here," they ask, "because you seek God, or are you looking for shelter from the rain?" Both might be valid reasons to come in, but they will each require different things from me as I journey on.
In some ways, I suppose they are a screening process. Am I a pilgrim, looking for the Risen One, a Seeker not sure of Him for whom I search, or am I an Outsider, welcome but not yet understanding everything that goes on here? As I answer, I feel the welcome come. I'm not a Saint, not one who can say that I seek Him as I ought, but I am one who knows how He should be sought.
Some days, that's the best I can do - I can continue to seek, and to seek how to seek. When I pray these words each morning, that's what I pledge to do.
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