Starting Out with Thanks

21. Little 4th of July dresses.
22. The weight of her in my arms.
23. Grey mornings.
24. An extra day with them.
25. The joy of enough.
26. Peace in the tumult of our lives right now.
27. Writing again.
28. Leaving them both asleep.
29. The warmth and weight of his hands.
30. Half-way morning smiles.

A Lie

Fourth grade, just starting to notice boys as something more than objects to be avoided, and I get a note.

“You’re pretty. If you want to go out with me, raise your hand at 2:01.”

I looked around the room. Could it really be possible? Someone thought I, still the new kid even after a year and the crybaby, was pretty enough? Nice enough? Smart enough?

I showed it to the other girls. Not all friends, but the closest I had.

“Raise your hand,” they said at recess, and again as the clock struck 2. “Raise your hand.”

I caught the just-about titter before I put my hand in the air, but not before my heart broke. He didn’t think I was pretty enough, but they thought I was dumb enough. No one liked my hair or my eyes, they just wanted to see if I’d fall, if they could get me, again.
My vigilance saved me from humiliation, but not from pain.

That’s one of the problems with lies: they hurt.

Sometimes the pain is pins stuck into deep places, like it was for me that day. Other times, it ebbs out so slowly that we miss it unless we look at things from just the right angle.

I think there’s a lie around that’s causing pain like that, pain that’s not even pain until we touch it. Pain many of us get so used to that we don’t even notice the things we’re doing to fill up the holes it leaves behind.

The lie? That truly living means our days are filled with adventure, excitement, and meaning we create. That if we do anything other than follow our dreams / travel around the world / join a cause, we’re only putting in time. Or wasting our time.

It’s not that making our dreams come true and doing exciting things is wrong. It’s not. But most of us don’t have the money, time, or energy to live in those places all the time.

In fact, if we did, we’d wear out, flame out, or burn out.

But the lie tells us we must live this way, or we’ve failed. We’ll get to the end of things and wish we’d chosen differently, wish we’d made our days our own instead of letting them come and go, ebb and flow, bringing what they bring.

The lie ignores the fact that a day is a gift. Each day is a gift. Life itself is a gift, and not just when we feel like we’re really living.

So I propose the following thoughts, to counteract the lie and bring some healing to the pain: 

If the now is as much of a gift as the not yet, maybe our task is different than what we’ve learned it to be.

Maybe instead of creating experience and meaning, we’ll find the meaning of each day as we live it, whatever it brings.

Maybe life is less about how much we fit in and more about how open our hands are to receive.

Maybe these days we’re given are holy places, brimming with more than we’ve let ourselves see.

If the little girl who got that note can learn to look into eyes that say, “I love you,” and trust him, then healing is possible. We can learn to meet each day, no matter what it holds, and say, “These? These are sacred days.”

Saying Goodbye

For me, saying "goodbye" carries connotations of moving vans, packing tape, and stacks of boxes. I remember last playtimes with my friends, and the strange feeling of walking away knowing that I wouldn't be back.  I remember getting in the car and driving away, feeling for all the world like I was going on a vacation instead of traveling to a new life.

Dave worked his last day on Wednesday. Even with more than 6 months of notice, that goodbye has made this week bittersweet. We didn't drive away, but we're very much in a different place than we were a year ago, or even a week ago.

Right now we're walking a twisty path. In some ways, it's easy going. We're not climbing mountains or negotiating crevasses with ice axes and crampons. On the other hand, it often feels more like wandering than hiking. Instead of following a trail, we're on the lookout for the next cairn, hoping that someone bothered to mark the path in front of us or else we risk getting lost.

Fifteen months ago, I was living a different life. Sometimes, I feel like the only thing connecting my life in April 2009 with my life now is me.

As I've walked this crazy path, I've pondered and meditated and contemplated. Since many of these thoughts center around certain themes, I've thought about starting a new blog. But right now I crave continuity. I cherish the thought of being the person who has lived these different lives and who unites them. And so over the next . . . as yet undefined period of time, I'm going to be posting the fruits of my wanderings (and occasionally the wanderings themselves). I think they have the potential to change this blog, to move it beyond commentary on my life, what's going on, and the people in it, into something else.

I can't help but wonder where we'll be fifteen months from now. October 2011, what do you have for us?

Thankfulnesses

Remembering to give thanks today.

Thankful that/for . . .

11. This life is not the end
12. Cloudy days and drizzle that fogs the eyes without actually getting anything wet.
13. Stories that sweep you away.
14. Soft light sweeping in through the window.
15. Others have walked this road of life and found peace and balance.
16. Friends who say, "Let me know what's going on."
17. Unexpected friends.
18. Purple pens.
19. How she almost rolls over.
20. Slow, steady days.

Giving thanks

May I never forget that there's no place so dark that light doesn't shine through somewhere. Today I'm tired, but I still give thanks (for) . . .

1. Little hands reaching for my face.
2. The daddy who loves her, so very much.
3. Parenthood as an object lesson, teaching me that gentleness and faithfulness aren't characteristics of the weak.
4. Water reviving droopy leaves.
5. Strength that comes day by day.
6. Sparkly green bangles.
7. 750 words
8. The stories still bumping around in my head, someday to be written.
9. Giggles that erupt from my baby's belly.
10. Her special, wake-up smile.

When the Night is Long

It's been a long time.

And it might be a long time before I'm here again.

I want to offer some sort of explanation for where I've been and why I haven't been here. The truth is,  every moment of the last 5 or 6 months has been so full and there's been so little time for synthesis and reflection that I don't have much commentary to offer on life, the universe, or anything.

The last months have felt like what I call and, " . . . and then" story. It's one of those times when, just as you feel like it might let up and you might get a breather, something else happens. And then something else happens. And then . . . and then . . . and then . . . and you have to catch your breath between laps because there's always something else.

Dave looked up at me the other day and said, "I feel like I've been tired since November," and, honestly, that's the truth. One.thing.after.another. Without time for air, let alone contemplation or reflection or much more than falling forward into the next step and hoping we land on a stepping stone and aren't swept away by the river.

When Dave said that, I told him that the only way I was going to make it to the end of the year was one day at a time. Sometimes one hour at a time. Sometimes one breath.

There are bad days. There are good days. On the whole, I don't think 2010 is going to be a year that I care to repeat any time soon. But we will prevail, because we have a God who doesn't get tired. He's never tempted to put us down and not pick us up again because his arms are tired, and he doesn't try to soothe us just so he can go get some rest already. Instead, he watches through the nights, these long, long nights, so we can take what rest we can.

And then he brings the morning.

He is the morning.

Amen. Come, Lord Jesus.

A Nightly Travesty

For my 10-weeks baby.

Sweet mystery.
Eyes flutter under closed lids.
Do you dream of warm breasts and milk,
the funny fleshy fingers that find their way into your mouth,
or maybe of rolling over?
Sacred smile
that you offer in your sleep,
happy in the weary arms that hold you.
Inspired breath
flutters in and out and in,
your fragile life so present and so strong. 
This is your sanctuary,
where you offer the only worship you can muster.
To put you down would be unholy.