Dispatches From a Dark Night

I know I write about this a lot. This is how I process through it, really. And I’m processing it again. But here it is: I really don’t know what faith looks like in this place.

It’s a sad reality that when I discuss our situation (and I’m sorry if you’ve heard about “our situation” from me a hundred times, but here’s the rundown: expecting a baby with a severe heart defect that will require surgery almost immediately after his birth, my husband’s lack of employment, not knowing how to pay our already-mounting medical bills or other basic expenses while I’m on unpaid maternity leave), some adopt what we’ve come to call a “Pollyanna” attitude about it. God will take care of you. Things are going to be okay. It will all work out. Let go and let God. If you have to go back to work two weeks after he’s born and still in the NICU, you should view it as a blessing in disguise. You can handle this.

While I appreciate the good intentions of those who offer these words, more often than not, all these attempts at simplicity and comfort manage to achieve is a minimization of our situation that infuriates me. Any one of these dilemmas would be bad enough, but the union of them all together makes for a thorny reality that none of us can brush aside. These words are band-aids on bullet holes, and it is in those moments I want to invite the people who say these things to inhabit my reality deeply for a time, to take upon themselves my thoughts and emotions and questions, to follow me into the closet when I close the door, fall on the floor, and fall apart completely, weeping from a depth that is bottomless. I wonder if they would be able to say those same things. I wonder if they heard those same words from someone else, if they would find them a warm blanket or a blast of cold.

We have faith. We have believed: in God’s provision, in His wisdom, in His timing. And we are still in a place where we don’t know how any of this is going to work out or in many instances, how we should act: we have no clear sense of whether or not we will even be one of the fortunate sets of parents who will come home with the baby they birthed, the baby whose movements they have felt and experienced for months on end, whose life they have witnessed squirming and stretching through his mother’s skin. This is a reality that we don’t dwell on, but must acknowledge. We cannot presume upon anything.

We are working, thinking, and praying with every last fiber and blood cell we have, wondering what God wants us to do. There are no promises about the outcome. There are no clear directives on what decisions to make. And it’s not because we haven’t been listening. We have been asking God and listening, interjecting our pleas and waiting. We are in a season where, like the mountain I sometimes see on my drive to work, God looms large in the distance, but is ultimately still and silent. I know, rather than feel, Him there. He is under a cover of clouds and veiled with an impenetrable an inky night. Job experienced this, mystic spiritual masters like St. John of the Cross wrote extensively about it, and recent saints like Mother Teresa lived it: the dark night of the soul.

I used to be afraid to say that that’s what this is. That’s for spiritual giants and I’m just a normal person. But now I don’t need to ask or question it or be afraid to call it what it is now, because I know. Dark nights are for normal people, too. Dark nights are those places where our ability to sense God in any way is gone, and where we are continually brought to the end of ourselves and asked to go still further. Where we feel like we have been stripped of everything we possess, and asked to give still more. God is deeply present in these dark nights, but in a way that is imperceptible to one in the thick of it.

It would be a mistake to say that there are not shafts of light that pierce the dark night – many moments of laughter, of profound joy as we prepare to embrace the mystery that is this child, that is parenthood. But it is joy that lives in the hollow of a crucible, in a place where layers of dross rise to the surface in the boiling heat and are skimmed off, in a place where we find the ends of ourselves again, and again, and again. And we know: we have deeper yet to go.

Perhaps these ends, these peelings away will increase our capacity for joy. Perhaps in coming to these ends we will learn to lean more fully into our invisible God, and come to know what it means to draw on His strength instead of defaulting to our own. Perhaps we will taste the faith the ancients did when they reasoned God could raise the dead and so held knives over their only children, when they stood in the blast of heat from a fire meant to incinerate their flesh and said, God can save us. But even if He does not, we will not bend the knee.

becoming catholic: part 6

Disclaimer: When it comes to matters of faith (and matters of Catholicism in particular), emotions run high. It is a topic on which many have strong bents, preferences, and biases and regarding which particular views are held strongly. In many circles, there is much in the way of fear, misinformation, and outright antagonism when the topic of Catholicism is broached. I do not claim to speak in any official terms about matters Catholic, I claim only to speak for my own experience and journey. That being said, things may be introduced or stated in this series of posts which directly impacted my decision to convert. The purpose of stating these things is not to exact judgment on anyone or to incite anger or division, but only to provide reasoned explanations for why I now freely and deliberately chose to become Catholic.

Read Part 1 here
Read Part 2 here
Read Part 3 here

Read Part 4 here
Read Part 5 here
Note: You can also click on the "Becoming Catholic" icon above to see the entire series

* * * * *

There are so many places I could go from the places in my journey I've already covered. I could go into the primacy of Peter and his seat, I could talk about the Catholic teaching on justification, or any number of other Catholic doctrines. Studying these things changed and shaped my view of the Christian faith and were deeply transformative along the journey. And no doubt about it, these issues are substantial when it comes to matters of the Christian faith.

I could explain to you even more of what I learned, but I'm not sure that is the most beneficial. If you really are curious, I could point you in the direction of resources that were helpful for me and not at all to difficult to digest and understand, or send you the drafts that I've written on these things (I'm not quite done with the one on Peter and his seat, and it's already at five pages single-spaced. Yikes). As much as these things changed me, I'm not sure I want to write essays aimed at proving some Catholic doctrine or another. You can get better material than I can produce elsewhere.

So for now, I thought I'd focus on some of the key things that drew me to the Church. These things, beyond assenting to them intellectually, pulled me and drew me in. These are the things that appealed to me. I'll be doing a fair amount of comparison with my experience as a Protestant. Keep in mind that when I speak of my experience of evangelical/Protestant Christianity, that's what it is limited to -- my experience. Depending on variations in background, denomination, and so on, someone else may claim a very different experience. If that's the case, that person is free to write his/her own blog post about it. Amen.

The Sacraments
Where I had grown up with only two ritual practices (baptism and communion), there are seven sacraments in the Catholic church. In truth, I'm not sure I ever heard these referred to as "sacraments" in the Protestant tradition in which I was raised. In addition to baptism and communion (or, the Eucharist), Catholics have the sacraments of confession (also called "reconciliation"), marriage, holy orders, confirmation, and anointing of the sick. Each of these could have a rather lengthy blog post about its significance, so I'll just touch on how some of these sacraments drew me.

What's a sacrament?
I'm so glad you asked! The following definitions are from the Catechism of the Catholic Church (CCC):

“Christ now acts through the sacraments he instituted to communicate his grace. The sacraments are perceptible signs (words and actions) accessible to our human nature. By the action of Christ and the power of the Holy Spirit they make present efficaciously the grace that they signify.” (CCC 1084)

“Celebrated worthily in faith, the sacraments confer the grace that they signify. They are efficacious because in them Christ himself is at work: it is he who baptizes, he who acts in his sacraments in order to communicate the grace that each sacrament signifies.” (CCC 1127)

Baptism
I was baptized when I was 14 years old, so it was not necessary for me to be baptized again. The Catholic church recognizes baptisms from other Christian churches that employ the trinitarian form (i.e., "In the name of the Father, of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit"). It was affirmed to me repeatedly that I was already one with the Church in my baptism.

Eucharist (Holy Communion)
Oh, how I love the Eucharist!! This one really could take up volumes. Without getting into the finer theological points of it, I grew up in a church that believed communion is a memorial meal: a remembrance of the death of Christ (depending on the Protestant tradition in which one worships, there are variations on this belief). I think the most we ever had communion was once a month. Catholics believe in the real presence; that is, once consecrated, that the bread and wine become by the power of the Holy Spirit the body, blood, soul and divinity of Christ. Catholic believers everywhere are united in sharing the body and the blood, able to take in and assimilate Christ's body in a physical way.

This may sound odd or even sacrilegious to some -- I know it did to me the first time I heard of such a thing. But read Christ's discourse with the disciples in John 6; observe the behavior of those who leave, offended at His command to eat His flesh and drink his blood (the Greek word for "eat" in this passage literally means to gnaw on, or to chew). It's interesting to me that many who insist on reading the Bible literally make a particular exception for this passage. Considering the response of those present, it seems certain to me that Christ was, in fact, speaking literally.

Confession (or, Reconciliation)
This one, believe it or not, was a tremendous draw for me. I know that a common objection is Why can't you just go to Jesus? A man can't forgive your sins! And the truth is, a man in his own authority cannot forgive your sins. But in John 20, after His resurrection, Christ meets the disciples and breathes the Holy Spirit on them, giving them His authority to forgive or retain a person's sins. I've gone to confession. I've spilled my guts to the priest. I knew he wasn't going to hear anything from me that he hadn't heard already. And he nodded in understanding, and spoke the words of absolution over me. Remember the definition of the sacrament: it's a perceptible word or action that signifies and communicates the particular grace that is signified by the action taking place. In other words, the priest was, with the authority of Christ, communicating the grace of forgiven sin.

These were sins I had acknowledged in prayer and with contrition before Christ in private many times. But it was unbelievably freeing and healing to experience the hands of the priest cover me, affirming my sins are forgiven. I walked out of that place with a lighter step and such tremendous peace and joy. I heard the words aloud, I saw hands raised in blessing. I got to experience it in a very real and very present way.

Engaging the Senses
I've already touched on this in describing what draws me about the sacraments, but one thing that really drew me was how all of one's senses are used in the Catholic church. In my experiences as an evangelical, much of my experience was distanced from anything tangible or concrete. Prayers of confession were silent; I always trusted I was forgiven, but I never heard an audible voice affirming that trust. I took communion when it was offered, but it was just supposed to draw me toward humility and to help me remember Christ's sacrifice -- something I had never seen or experienced. Conversion meant "asking Jesus into your heart and accepting Him as your personal Lord and savior." It was evident in these moments that the Spirit was moving deeply, no doubt. But I longed for something with which to engage, something I could touch, taste, and feel.

As a Catholic, I get to experience and worship Christ with all my senses. When I see Him hanging on the crucifix in the chapel, I'm reminded of His suffering and sacrifice on our behalf, and I'm reminded of the consequences of my sin -- I put Him there, but still He allows me to identify all my suffering with His; it is not without purpose. I sing and respond during the Mass, and I hear the priest speak the words of consecration that Saint Paul wrote, straight from 1 Corinthians 11. I use my body: I stand when the gospel is read, and I kneel when the Eucharist is being consecrated. During the high days, I smell the incense, our prayers rising to heaven. Each time I enter the chapel, I bless myself with the holy water, which serves to remind me of my baptismal promises: to reject Satan, all His empty promises, and to affirm my belief in God and His church. During the Eucharist, I receive in my own body the flesh and blood of Christ, which in taste and appearance are like bread and wine. In confession, I confess my sins and hear the words of absolution from the priest, who is acting in persona Christi. In other words, my physical reality becomes saturated with graces that are otherwise intangible. I can hear Christ, see Him, feel Him, taste Him, and smell Him in the Mass.

History & Apostolic Succession
More than just possessing a love of history, I longed for a church with history: a body that had its rootedness in tradition, and in the ways and teachings of the apostles. I grew up in non-denominational Christian churches. I learned to love Jesus there, I memorized Bible verses, and I participated as fully as I could. I never questioned the power of Jesus, nor the presence of the Holy Spirit. The Bible was read, the Bible was taught, and everyone I knew sought to honor Christ. We did community outreaches, we sponsored orphans, we fed the poor. There were so many things the communities of which I was a part did well.

But as I got older, I recognized that there were things missing from my experience of church that were in the Bible: the breaking of bread for as often as we met together, anointing the sick, or any kind of confession of sins (you know: to another human being ... out loud, like it says in James 5). Sometimes I got the impression sin wasn't really that big a deal because hey, Jesus is a nice guy and He's going to forgive you anyway. And it really troubled me that my church taught something a little differently than my friend's churches, like the significance and importance of baptism, for example. I thought the view my church taught made the most sense, but how did I know it was really the right one?

The need for real God-given authority became evident when in my post-college years, this church experienced something I never thought I'd see. One of the associate pastors was fired (the man who baptized me and my siblings), and in a way that violated the church's own constitution. The leaders responsible tried to backpedal and cover it up by asking for this pastor's resignation after the fact, but the damage had already been done. We knew what had happened. When confronted with this information, the leadership of the church proceeded to chastise my parents in their own home, fire my Dad from his part-time landscaping job there (this was accomplished by a note in his last paycheck), and we were told that if we didn't apologize for saying that we knew what was going on and that it was wrong, we would not be welcome at that church again. In good conscience, this is not something we were able to do.

This is the church I was born into. This is the church where my family had poured out blood, sweat, and tears for the twenty-some years we had been there. And what could we do? We had no recourse, no court of appeal. It was one of the most hurtful things we ever experienced as a family. And after it happened to us, we met many others who had experienced similar trauma at the hands of other Christian churches. Though I had no idea what it would look like at the time, I recognized that some kind of authority was necessary, someone to whom teachers and leaders in the church were accountable.

The Saints
I'd be lying if I said that the men and women whom the Church recognizes as saints weren't a draw. I have often heard, Why can't you just look to Christ? and that is true. We can look to Christ (and we should look to Him) as our chief example. But I have something in common with these men and women we call saints: they were not the incarnate Son of God. They were like me. They were ordinary people who lived extraordinarily holy lives in the face of many challenges, in the face of opposition, in the face of tyranny. Some of them were martyred, some of them helped give shape to many of the foundational doctrines of our faith. All were faithful to the risen Christ. And the truth is, through this "great cloud of witnesses" we can see the power of Christ working through rather humble and ordinary folk.

Saint Agatha is the woman I chose as my confirmation saint (click on the link to read a brief article about her). I chose her because like her, I want to profess my faith unflinchingly even in the face of opposition and ridicule. God forbid I should ever face the torture and mutilation she did on account of her faith, but I certainly hope that regardless of the circumstances, I might stand firm and faithful to the end as she did.

Not rushing through Good Friday
I was really looking forward to my first Good Friday as a Catholic. In the evangelical/Protestant churches I attended, there would be a Good Friday service, and I would always go. The service would include reflections on Christ's suffering and sacrifice, sometimes a graphic description or representation of what Christ endured. Inevitably, the service would end with a reminder of Easter Sunday.

While I knew Sunday was coming and what that meant, I often felt a loss at not being able to properly mourn what Jesus suffered -- I felt rushed into Sunday before Friday was even over. Yes, we all know He rose on Sunday. Yes, we know He was victorious over sin and death. Believe me, I want to run toward that empty tomb as much as anyone! But please, in the name of all that is holy, allow me this one day to mourn what my sin did to Jesus. Let me feel it, let me mourn Him, let me sit with this for awhile. Let me feel the weight of what my sin cost Him.

This year, I finally got that experience. When we walked into the chapel, the glass etching of the risen Christ that marks the entrance was covered in black cloth. The altar was bare of its customary linens. The crucifix at the opposite end of the chapel was draped in a large red cloth. And the font of holy water was empty.

The service was a couple hours long, in which the priest and a couple of other readers took turns reading the entire story of the Passion from the book of John. Near the start of the service, I prayed for tears, for the grace to be able to mourn truly the loss of my Savior. Never has a prayer of mine been answered so quickly!! Somewhere in the midst of the reading, I started crying. Just a tear streaming down here and there, until I was sniffling and stifling sobs, until the backs of my hands were wet and salty.

Near the end of the service, the priest and the deacon went to the back of the chapel to remove the red draping from the crucifix. One arm of the cross was exposed, and then the next, and then the whole covering was removed. We were all invited to meditate on what it meant to venerate (i.e., show reverence for) the cross. Everyone took turns coming forward, some kneeling, some standing, some bowing their heads as they whispered their prayers to Jesus. I had no idea what I would do when I got there, I was so overcome. But when when our turn arrived, I knelt down in front of that cross, bowed my head, touched those pierced feet and wept. I just wept. We weren't there long, but I got a chance to tell Jesus how sorry I was, just to look at Him and say thank you, to grieve the death He died and the shame He suffered on my behalf.

The experience was emotional and cathartic, but also something more. In a very substantial way, I was able to grieve my Lord, able to recognize the gravity of sin, and able to experience the most overwhelming and infinite love of a God who gave His Son as a ransom for sinners. I was in every way, on holy ground.

And you know what? That made Easter something I could really celebrate.

* * * * *

Note: I've decided to wrap up this series with my next post, in which I'll address some of the common questions/misconceptions I've confronted and do my level best to explain (as succinctly as possible) the answers to those things. Thanks to all of you who have hung in here with me and read my insanely long posts! You honor me, and I am humbled.

the beautiful & terrible

I've been thinking a lot about Eve lately. I'm not one who goes around saying, Darn that Eve! (or something stronger) knowing that if it hadn't been her who succumbed to temptation, it would have been someone else. Had I been in that garden, it could just as easily have been me. But I have been thinking a lot about her and her curse:

I will surely multiply your pain in childbearing; in pain you shall bring forth children. Your desire shall be for your husband, and he shall rule over you.
Genesis 3:16

When I was much younger, I thought this multiplied pain referred primarily to childbirth. No doubt it includes that, but having observed the pregnancies of several friends and now experiencing my own first hand, that perspective has changed. That multiplied pain must include nausea and fatigue, riding the emotional roller coaster, being tossed on the waves of a sea of uncontrollable hormones, stretching skin, and perhaps even those frequent trips to the bathroom that disrupt my sleep.

It started out slow, but gradually the nausea I've experienced has increased. Last week in particular was brutal -- I experienced profound nausea during every waking hour (and unlike the flu, no amount of throwing up will ease the discomfort). I was incredibly tired. As soon as I was off of work, I went home and curled up my limp body on the couch. I've also experienced this nauseated feeling accompanied by a terrible stomachache and heartburn.

Multiplied pain, indeed.

And then I found something. Almost daily, I scour the web for images and information about my exact stage of pregnancy. In the course of my search yesterday, I found a website called the Endowment for Human Development. There were in utero pictures and videos of even the earliest stages of pregnancy and detailed information about every phase of development. On the home page, a streaming video shows a little one at 7 weeks and 4 days of development (I'm currently at 7 weeks and 6 days) lifting his hand to his little mouth and responding to the touch. I felt tears prick my eyes. I know and have believed this whole time that every pain and sacrifice is worth it, but this brought that thought into greater fullness. That hand-kissing embryo could just as be my little one.

7-1/2 weeks embryo, image from ehd.org

Somehow that made it easier for a time. I looked for more pictures, and felt my heart lighten. But the feeling was temporary -- the nausea continued to get worse. I was already wondering if I could do this (have a child) more than once. I know I can expect these sensations to abate by the second trimester, which is about 6 weeks away. It might as well be about 60 years for how long that sounds.

I was thinking about these two things, holding the curse in one hand and the wonder of this little life growing inside of me on the other. I cannot separate the experiences of these two, really. I've got this miraculous little life growing inside of me and at the same time, I'm constantly subject to these terrible sensations. I cannot separate the two.

I couldn't help but think how the rest of life is just like this. We all experience our share of pain and happiness, of loss and abundance, of anguish and joy. There are births and funerals, job losses and promotions, marriages and shattered friendships. While some seem to have the scale skewed one way or the other, I know no one whose life is exclusively happy or exclusively ridden with agony. The beautiful and the terrible are always, to some extent, tightly woven and meshed together in such a way that we cannot separate them.

God said He would greatly multiply Eve's pain in childbearing. But he didn't do away with childbearing completely, which I imagine He could have done -- He still used her to knit together the sons and daughters that gave birth to the human race, which is no small miracle. Evil entered the world with the fall, but it did not take over completely. Elements of the Divine still pervaded and continue to pervade our world.

And I wonder if Eve, in holding her children, thought what a terrible and beautiful thing it all was: the exquisite pain in bringing forth the delicate little life she held. I wonder if she looked at those little babes and thought in spite of the all the discomfort and pain that would be fresh in her memory: beauty still triumphs.

* * * * *

Post-Script: I wanted to amend this piece to add that I have since found a safe and effective remedy for the nausea I've been experiencing that *almost* allows me to function at my full capacity. Just one of the many advantages to having so many friends who have walked this path ahead of me ...

amongst friends

Do nothing from rivalry or conceit, but in humility count others more significant than yourselves. Let each of you look not only to his own interests, but also to the interests of others. Have this mind among yourselves, which is yours in Christ Jesus, who, though he was in the form of God, did not count equality with God a thing to be grasped, but made himself nothing, taking the form of a servant, being born in the likeness of men. And being found in human form, he humbled himself by becoming obedient to the point of death, even death on a cross.
Philippians 2:3-8

I've been very quiet around here lately, and there's a reason. I know that amongst friends, there's no need for explanation or apology, but I just wanted to reach out and say hello. You know how it is when you've been cut off from the world for several days: whether you're sick or snowed in, or something like that? All you want is to get back to life and re-engage with the people and things that give you energy and joy.

That's kind of what this past week or more has felt like. Between nausea and a headcold, I've logged many hours on our couch and filled a trash bin with used, crumpled tissue. I feel like anything I write would simply convey: I feel icky and cut off, and I'm just going to tell you how icky and cut off I feel. I'm not taking many pictures and getting to the gym is a rarity. Naps are frequent, and it appears my body needs a seemingly-unrealistic 9-10 hours of sleep each night.

Bleh. Frustration is a very real temptation.

My prayer these days centers around learning to embrace this as a season, as a way of engaging with the humility of Christ and giving myself over to the creative work going on within me. I have been thinking a lot about how Christ emptied himself, made Himself nothing. For me, this means letting go of giving my creative energy to camera time in favor of the getting the rest my body needs. It means letting go of my plans and my schedule and paying attention to the demands of the present moment. It means counting this child as more significant than myself.

I've been giving a lot of thought to what type of Lenten fast or devotion I can commit to this season. Given the state of affairs, my thought is that it will have to do not so much with a fast as it will a devotion to the humility of Christ by way of a daily prayer for humility. It seems to be what I'm called toward in this season: to serve and to be thankful, not to seek my own way, but to allow God to have His way with me.

Blessings to you this Lenten season!!

in which she shares random thoughts on her first pregnancy

Today is the six week mark. I'm walking through experiences millions of women have experienced over the course of thousands of years. I know I have nothing new to add to the conversation, but now it is personal and so of course, I have some thoughts which may amount to a sum total of little to no value. If you're curious, feel free to read on.

Random Thought #1
I thought I got a lot of unsolicited advice when I was getting married. The volume of advice I've received over the past two weeks leaves my piddly little pile of wedding advice in the dust.

Random Thought #2
Though unsolicited, most of this advice is useful and welcome. I don't have a clue what I'm doing.

Random Thought #3
I had no idea I would see certain physical changes so rapidly. I don't need stretchy pants yet, but I will almost certainly need a new bra soon.

Random Thought #4
Hello, information overload. There are approximately one gazillion books out there on pregnancy and birthing. Though I haven't seen even a small percentage of them, I'm also convinced that there are approximately 4.5 gazillion websites on the same topic, with the added bonus of member forums. This is interesting (as in, never heard of that before!), aggravating (as in, those symptoms could be soooo many other things), and sometimes entertaining (as in, no comment).

Random Thought #5
I never in a million years would have thought it was possible to find coffee and/or wine repulsive. Before I became pregnant, I was actually worried about giving them up and how difficult it would be. But it's true: those things sound gross to me and it makes my neurons fry a little to see it written out in black and white. Just the thought of either kind of activates my gag reflex a little. Eww.

Random Thought #6
Morning sickness is a good sign, apparently. Today I read: "Studies show that women with morning sickness are less likely to miscarry or deliver prematurely." I will try and remember that the next several mornings as I direct all the powers of my will toward making sure my breakfast does not make a northward journey.

Random Thought #7
I never thought it was possible to sleep this much. I've never been much of a napper, and I've never been able to sleep in the car ... until now, at least. Case in point, last Friday. We drove to Bellingham to visit my family for the weekend. I slept (I mean, I really slept) in the car for an hour on the way. After we got there, I had another half hour nap. After dinner, another two hours. And then ten hours of sleep that night. Holy moly, I am a world-champion sleeper!!

Random Thought #8
This one, a bit more serious. It's hard not to think about abortion at this point and all the little ones who don't see the light of day. I don't want to get political and the purpose is not to incite debate. I certainly do not judge anyone in this regard. But I do have some rather personal thoughts on the matter and since it's my blog, I am going to share them.

This is what I know: Little Bean (at just 6 weeks) has a beating heart and though miniature, an entirely functional circulatory system. S/he has a brain and nervous system and this week, is sensible enough to be able to respond to stimuli. S/he has unique DNA. In other words, the wee embryo that some might refer to as a blob of tissue has a heart, a brain, a nervous system. These things aren't mine, that much is clear to me (believe me, I'm not any smarter even though I have another brain inside me). I am a steward and a host to this wee soul, to this growing, developing, and entirely vulnerable little body. And I want to be a good one.

I love you, Little Bean.

rest

That's probably the piece of advice I've gotten most lately:

Rest. Get all the rest you can right now.

I've always had a hard time slowing down. I've always been one to push through the tired, to get my list of tasks completed. To greater or lesser degrees, I've always thought that I was valuable to the same degree to which I could get things done, cross them off my list, and prove myself. A Christian most of my life, I've long understood this is not really true, but I lived as if it were. It has always felt true. I've always struggled with this.

But the sanctity of the life growing inside me is far from being lost on me. I'm humbled and in awe that God is inviting me to participate in this miracle. I pray for the little bean several times a day, I make the sign of the cross over my belly, I ask Jesus and Mary to protect this little life.

It was so fitting with the readings at Mass this past weekend, the first reading being from the first chapter of Jeremiah: Before I formed you in the womb I knew you ... (Jeremiah 1:5) and we later sung a hymn based on Psalm 139: You formed my inmost being; you knit me in my mother's womb (v. 14).

I felt tears prick my eyes. God knows far better than I do just how precious this little one is.

He loves and knits and protects and knows. While the pace of my life slows and come to stillness at the end of the day, He is watchful and vigilant and busy, ever standing guard over us. I realized this morning that more than a physical need, rest is a part of my vocation right now, needed to nurture myself and this little bean.

And somehow, knowing that is making it easier for me to rest.

to be hidden in Him

I'm not hiding from you, I promise. Well, OK maybe just a little.
Will it help if I distract you with pretty things?

Butterflies hand-painted on a delicate Japanese fan, perhaps?
A bright pink polka-dotted ribbon?

No then?
Well, I will say this:

I've entered into a deep mystery, I've been given a gift.
And I'm here hiding, thanking God quietly,
taking to Him my fears and freakouts,
wondering, pondering, resting, asking.

Hoping and praying, wondering and thanking.

Hiding, quietly.

sometimes, you will have no idea what you are doing

Me doing my Help-Portrait thang

The Aloha Inn, Seattle
20 December 2009
Photo Credit: orionlee

That describes my experience on Sunday at the Help-Portrait event at which I volunteered at The Aloha Inn in Seattle, a transitional housing facility for individuals seeking to make their way out of homelessness. I was totally on board when I heard about Help-Portrait, which I saw as a chance to meld my burgeoning love of photography with a desire also to be of service to the homeless.

Help-Portrait is the brain/heart-child of Jeremy Cowart, a professional photographer who has photographed oodles and oodles of famous people; you've probably seen plenty of his work without even knowing it. I found out about Help Portrait when I read this entry on Donald Miller's blog in early September. The idea was simple: take portraits of and give prints of them to people who would otherwise not have the opportunity to have a decent portrait taken. No minimum skill level, no fancy camera equipment or skills needed. Just as willingness to show up and a heart to give.

So like I said: I was totally on board. I just had no idea I'd be such a fish out of water, complete with desperate flopping, dramatic flailing in search of a safe pool, and feeling all slimy, slippery, and scaly to boot (hopefully not the smelly part; the team could probably best speak to that point).

Since we've been married, I've joined with James in his passion for serving the homeless, and so this was too perfect an opportunity. But for someone who has been happily clicking away with her DSLR without really knowing what she was doing, I felt like I was thrown into the deep end when I (gulp) volunteered to be the portrait photographer and (double-gulp) somehow ended up at the last minute as the event coordinator. Luckily a lot of groundwork had been laid by others who held their events earlier in the month (the "official" Help-Portrait day was December 12), but until we got there and the event started, I was insanely tense and nervous about my roles for the day.

The lovely Denise, our roaming photographer
Taken with Blackberry camera phone

There is a part of me that would like to say that it all went off without a hitch -- that was a natural behind the camera, that I was a pro at drawing my more reluctant subjects out of their shells. I adjusted my camera settings with ease and kept everything moving along smoothly. This was so clearly not the case.

I had no idea how to set up the lights or where to put the backdrop. The white balance on my camera -- how do I adjust that again? What mode should I shoot in? Why do my test shots look so washed out? How do you find suitable poses for people? What type of memory card do I have? And how in the world (pray tell) have I been taking pictures this long without knowing these things?

These are all things I fumbled through awkwardly, and not without quite a bit of help. Other volunteers helped me with my settings and my white balance, with suggestions and ideas. James moved the backdrop to a better location. Sam happily cropped and processed photos all by himself. Annie coaxed smiles and confident postures from our subjects. All were warm and wonderful people. Instead of feeling like an idiot, I felt like I was being helped myself. I was doubly inspired by the brave and healing souls who were the subjects of our photographs.

I have a lot to learn when it comes to photography. I am living proof that it's shockingly easy to take beautiful pictures with a DSLR without knowing half of what the darn thing (the "darn thing" being the camera) can do. In the meantime, it's good to know that there are those who can make up for what I lack and who are more than willing to share their expertise without condescension. And for those times when I don't have a clue what I am doing, maybe I will remember that even then, me having it together is not the point.

Sometimes, I will have absolutely no idea what I am doing. And somehow even then, it will be okay.


NOTE: I would love to share some of the portraits with you that were taken at the event. Most of our subjects (understandably) signed forms affirming that they would like their privacy protected and not have their photos posted in any public forum. There were a few brave souls, however, that said they would love to have their images shared. Once processed, I'll happily share those portraits!!

advent mercies

It is Advent now: a season of waiting. I imagine Mary, stroking her heavy pregnant belly, wondering exactly what and who it was she would be welcoming. I wonder if the days seemed longer and heavier and darker as the day drew ever nearer. I imagine that there were times it seemed the day would never come. I imagine that she felt the stretch and ache of it all.

As I peruse blogs these days, I find other writers heavy with this theme of waiting, of as-yet-unmet expectation, of hope in the long dark hours of winter. I am heavy with waiting, too. It seems the days stretch on into an endless succession of nothings sometimes. This is held in tension with the many blessings afforded me this year, the foremost of which is a love I did not expect ever to experience. Some days it seems ironic and others, I know that what I've received has taught me to expect and to hope.

Waiting is an impossible place to be sometimes: hopeful and buoying with effervescence one minute, I can feel deeply discouraged and all but suffocated in the next. I constantly find myself pinging back and forth like a pinball between I know it must happen and it will never, ever happen. Ever.

And yet we are repeatedly commanded in sacred Scripture to wait, to trust, and to hope. This seems unrealistic at best at masochistic at worst in light of the realities we face respectively: the baby that seems like he will never come, the ever-evasive perfect job that suits our passions and abilities, the light of revelation that will lift the fog from our mind or the shackles from a crippling depression. And it's not as if the men who penned these words did not have their share of adversity; they faced murderers at their heels, plotters in their courts, and crowds who spat upon them when the truth was spoken. It is not as if they didn't understand the weight of their words.

I was reading in the book of Sirach this morning, a text of Scripture that is new to me in my journey toward becoming Catholic. Predating the time of Christ by about 175-200 years, this book was often used toward the end of instructing those new to the faith: a type of catechesis, if you will. I found these words I read this morning so fitting -- familiar like a well worn pair of shoes, but also fresh in a way that had me gazing upon this truth as a novel and remarkable thing:

You who fear the Lord, wait for His mercy, turn not away lest you fall.
You who fear the Lord, trust Him and your reward will not be lost.
You who fear the Lord, hope for good things, for lasting joy and mercy.
Study the generations long past and understand; has anyone hoped in the Lord and been disappointed?
Has anyone persevered in His fear and been forsaken?
has anyone called upon Him and been rebuffed?
Compassionate and merciful is the Lord; He forgives sins, he saves in time of trouble.
Sirach 2:7-11 (NAB)

While deeply encouraged by what I read, this encouragement came with the knowledge that I will continue to wait, that I will face discouragement, and that I will be tempted toward hopelessness. It can seem unrealistic and ridiculous at times, this command to wait and to hope. Experience and worldliness might teach us all to throw in the towel, to give up, to put our heads down and plod through life as best we can.

But here it is again: the command to hope, to look up, and to look back toward this great cloud of witnesses:

Study the generations long past and understand; has anyone hoped in the Lord and been disappointed? Has anyone persevered in His fear and been forsaken? has anyone called upon Him and been rebuffed?

No. No, they haven't. And neither will I.

It struck me this morning that I have a choice in the matter: I can wait slouchingly and with tremendous self-pity, wallowing in hopelessness, or I can look up and look back and say: I don't know what will happen, or when. But I know He will not disappoint or forsake me. He won't. It's not in His nature. And our lives here are not the end of the story.

And so we wait for Him, stretching and aching together, knowing that if we fall, we fall into mighty hands.

Let us fall into the hands of the Lord, and not the hands of men,
For equal to his majesty is the mercy that He shows.
Sirach 2:18

a little illumination

The story of the passion and crucifixion is one Christians know well. But I had never heard this before and thought maybe if you didn't either, you might like to understand a little better our Lord and our God. Learning this (the content of this video) made me choke, gasp, and weep. It humbled me utterly.

(The video is approximately 4 minutes long)

Note: This sermon series (as you may notice) is from the book of Luke. Since I've been spending time studying the book of John, however, I am sharing the account given by the disciple whom Jesus loved.

When the soldiers had crucified Jesus, they took his garments and divided them into four parts, one part for each soldier; also his tunic. But the tunic was seamless, woven in one piece from top to bottom, so they said to one another, "Let us not tear it, but cast lots for it to see whose it shall be.” This was to fulfill the Scripture which says,

"They divided my garments among them,
and for my clothing they cast lots."

So the soldiers did these things, but standing by the cross of Jesus were his mother and his mother’s sister, Mary the wife of Clopas, and Mary Magdalene. When Jesus saw his mother and the disciple whom he loved standing nearby, he said to his mother, "Woman, behold, your son!" Then he said to the disciple, "Behold, your mother!" And from that hour the disciple took her to his own home.

After this, Jesus, knowing that all was now finished, said (to fulfill the Scripture), "I thirst." A jar full of sour wine stood there, so they put a sponge full of the sour wine on a hyssop branch and held it to his mouth. When Jesus had received the sour wine, he said, "It is finished," and he bowed his head and gave up his spirit.

John 19:23-30 (ESV)

one thing i do know

I was reading in John 9 this morning about Jesus healing a man born blind. The Pharisees doubt and closely scrutinize the claim of healing: Is it the same man? Was he really blind from his birth? How is it that he sees now? If it was Jesus, how did He do it?

The blind man states simply: it was Jesus who healed me. The Pharisees vehemently disagree with this man's assessment and retort that this is impossible, as "We know that man is a sinner" (v. 24). The blind man sidesteps their presumption and replies: "Whether he is a sinner I do not know. One thing I do know, that though I was blind, now I see" (v. 25).

The statement "One thing I do know" grabbed me. I have had much on my mind lately, relating both to impending decisions in my personal life and discussions of a theological or philosophical nature: intelligent design and evolution, theories of time, historical revisionism, and what it really means to worship in spirit and in truth (just to name a few). It is more frequently the case than not that during or after these discussions, my neural pathways are overloaded and my head starts to hurt. Ow.

I think those discussions are good and important; I know that they have their places. But I also think it's good to return to and be astonished by the simple truth of: One thing I do know, that though I was blind, now I see. However others may doubt, whatever lofty intellectual issues remain unresolved, whatever theological issues are not clear or within our grasp, this is something I can return to and know for sure.

I was blind. Now I see. What a miraculous and incredible mercy!

dream of myself

I saw myself from the outside. This is rare for me in dreams.

Thrown into a tiny room with no windows in a building that was a prison, I lay in a pulpy heap on the floor. I was bruised, I was cut; my body was naked and noticeably swollen. With what strength I had left, I wept quietly.

No longer restricting me, my bonds were thrown onto the floor next to me. My captors walked away, leaving the door wide open. I was free to go.

But I stayed.

* * *

I had this dream over a week ago, and it has managed to stay with me. I've turned it over and over and I'm fairly certain of its meaning. And because I'm still in that little room, lying on the floor, looking out an open door from the floor of a small cell, I'm not free to talk about what it means.

But we are praying like crazy: for me to be set free, to be able to walk out of that prison without once looking back.

joy in the morning

Weeping may tarry for the night,
but joy comes with the morning.
Psalm 30:5 (ESV)

Joy indeed.

For a time, it was hard to believe that the nightmare I found myself in last week would ever end. James and I knew something like this would likely happen -- we talked about it but we had no idea to what degree it would grieve us both.

Without saturating your brains with details, I found myself facing the many consequences of past sin: sins I've committed, and those committed against me. I experienced pain like none other that stemmed from some of the earliest memories of my childhood and into my life as an adult. Things for which I had long since confessed, grieved, and repented were bleeding as though newly committed. Decades old wounds were oozing afresh. I saw the consequences of these things reaching their thick tentacles from my past and suffocating the life out of my present, driving a wedge, causing a separation that felt like death. I had full and hellish experiences of how they hindered me. I consistently felt like I was getting the hell beat out of me. Words like awful and terrible are (to borrow a favorite James-ian phrase) the hyperbole of understatement to describe what this was. It was a nightmare, and the nighttime was long.

But then something changed.

I can't tell you how often and for how long my heart has been poured out in prayers for healing, for repentance, for a heart changed and healed and made whole. I desperately wished I could just snap out of it, but this was wholly beyond my power. My life and my vitality were being choked to death.

In the nighttime, I couldn't know why this was happening or how it would end. Or if it would ever. I told God so many times: I can't fix this. I can't do this. I need You to heal. I need You to redeem. If it were as simple as me choosing healing, it would have been done long ago. And so I waited for God to extend His hand.

And then He did. It was not anything I did. I was reading a passage of Scripture I had read many times before when it happened. But in almost an instant, my mind was changed. My heart had shifted. There was no drama, no weeping, no insane laughter. The transition was like passing from one room and into another.

In matter of moments, those particular pieces of my heart that were in ragged tatters were mended, or at least held together in a way they hadn't been before. I somehow became separate from the sin and darkness that moments before, had engulfed me, separating me from myself and those around me. There was a movement, almost imperceptible to me, from intense introspection to outward love, away from separateness and toward intimacy. The faith given me was lucid and sure, my hope so substantial I felt like I could sink my teeth into it. It filled me completely.

I have no doubt that sorrow will return in one form or another. It always does, and it seems to follow all too swiftly on the heels of joy. But since I am so good at forgetting, it is good to be reminded in truth and in reality:

Just keep going. No feeling is final.
Don't let yourself lose me.

a day for green pastures

down in the green grass, canon 40d
photo by kirsten.michelle

The LORD is my shepherd, I shall not be in want.

He makes me lie down in green pastures,
he leads me beside quiet waters,

he restores my soul.
He guides me in paths of righteousness
for his name's sake.

Psalm 23:1-3



Today is my first day of four weeks off of work. I get married in just less than two weeks and will be returning to my job just two weeks after. As the countdown ticks away the time and the days remaining of my unmarried life diminish, there are a lot of things to do. The list is long. We have to find an apartment. We have to apply for a marriage license. We have to drive back and forth, north and south up the one hundred mile stretch between my current home and my hometown for countless appointments that will prepare us for the day. We still have to find a soloist, a sound person, someone to cut the cake, and another to tote away the gifts. Anyone who has taken part in planning a wedding understands that in the days just prior, there is a lot to do.

So I've intentionally set aside today for the purpose of rest.

This doesn't mean my backside has taken up permanent fixture on the couch. This doesn't mean I won't leave my house or even that I won't accomplish a productive thing or two.

When I consider the Psalmist's words, I'm struck by the fact that the very first way in which he describes the lord as a shepherd is this: he makes me lie down. He makes me. It would be so easy to get caught up in the chaos that necessarily attends a life-changing event like this. It would be easy and perhaps even make more sense to spend today ticking things off a to-do list that, despite how much I am getting done, is increasing in length. But I've already noticed how the busyness has worn on me, how it's worn me down and depleted me. Not typically a napper, I took three last week, a 2-1/2 hour nap on Saturday, and an hour nap yesterday. And I'm still exhausted, still fighting the feeling that a little gremlin is inside my head tugging backward on my eye sockets. Everything is telling me: lie down.

The second part that strikes me is that this lying down precedes the words, he restores my soul. While I doubt highly that the good Lord needs my help in the work of restoration, it is interesting to note that to some extent, it requires my participation, my willingness to lie still for a time and be restored. And I will affirm for you that after weeks of work and wedding planning and many consecutive late nights on the phone, I need to be restored. To be sure I was understanding the words correctly, I examined the definition and found the following:

re⋅store
1. to bring back into existence, use, or the like; reestablish: to restore order.
2. to bring back to a former, original, or normal condition, as a building, statue, or painting.
3. to bring back to a state of health, soundness, or vigor.
4. to put back to a former place, or to a former position, rank, etc.: to restore the king to his throne.
5. to give back; make return or restitution of (anything taken away or lost).
6. to reproduce or reconstruct (an ancient building, extinct animal, etc.) in the original state.

I need Him to bring me back to myself, to bring me back, to dust in the corners and seal the cracks and bring vividness and color and life and vitality back. I do not pretend to possess a ordered, rested, healthy soul right now. But of all the days in my life, I think today is the day where He makes me lie down. Today is the day in which I invite Him: restore my soul.

And so I move meditatively and with intention through my day, breathing in and out deliberately, mindfully inviting Him to provide rest in every aspect. I invite Him: restore my soul.

finding center

I went to the bottom of the ravine, and then I climbed to the top of the hill.

Saturday, March 15 was my first full day at the Mount Hermon Christian Writer’s Conference. I left for Mount Hermon much like I left for Florida, at a quarter to 2 in the morning after just two hours of sleep (luckily there weren’t several inches of snow this time). After checking in and getting my luggage to my little red cabin, I felt in danger of toppling over from fatigue.

But here I was: a writer amongst writers.

I went to the dining hall for lunch and received my first introduction to the two-pronged line of questioning posited throughout the course of the conference whenever I sat with writers, publishers, agents, and editors I didn’t know:

What do you write? Are you married?

After the first orientation session, I reasoned my time would be better spent napping than fighting the urge to fall asleep during one of the first elective sessions. I got my nap that afternoon, but was still competing with the impulse to return to bed over the course of the next day. It was at lunch on Saturday that I was ready to reprint my cards with the answers to the two questions I had already begun to answer automatically: I write non-fiction and I’m single.

I was at the premier Christian writer’s conference and I was happy to be there. But it was during this same lunch hour that I realized that I was getting sick of all the writing talk. These mealtimes (breakfast aside) were a time for writers to talk themselves up and sell their ideas to whatever publisher, editor, agent, or freelancer happened to be sitting at the table. It was a place to secure appointments and make dazzling first impressions. I just wasn’t in that place. And while I was perfectly okay with that, I felt myself becoming a two-dimensional cardboard cutout in the eyes of those around me; I felt as though I was being considered only in terms of my preferred mode of writing and my marital status because that is all anyone seemed interested in knowing about me.

I didn’t try to reason my way out of feeling like I didn’t want to talk about writing anymore. I understood that many had been preparing for these few conference days since the previous year and were ready to be in active pitching mode. I had only known for three weeks that I’d be attending, and now I was here. No wonder my head was spinning. No wonder I felt as though I had taken up residence in an alternate universe where I was learning the language and customs by immersion.

I gave myself permission in that moment to skip the afternoon sessions, knowing my attendance would only exacerbate the feelings I was having. I dropped my bag and my three-ring notebook off in my room, grabbed my camera, and took off down the Sequoia Trail. It was crisp and chilly, but bright. I felt lightened as I made my way down the trail; I was alone, a speck in danger of being swallowed by the redwoods and sequoias that towered over me. I craned my neck back to see if could make out the tops of the trees that I imagined piercing the floor of heaven and tickling God’s feet.

I ran for several stretches along the trail, clearing thick and gnarled roots as though they were hurdles, kicking up damp earth and pulling its scent deep into my nostrils. I was unshackled, free of four hundred strangers. It was just me and Yahweh, traipsing through these magnificent woods together, talking freely and listening intently to one another. I talked to Him about all sorts of things: about the places in my heart where I so recently had difficulty remembering, and the fresh ache that pressed on me when memory came back in a torrent. I tried to speak to Him about new aches to which I was unable to give any shape with my words, so I didn’t force it: I simply exposed my heart let the ache speak for itself.

As gravity propelled me downward, the promise of stillness became closer. The place of narrow questions and big notebooks and lectures and sales pitches felt far away. I was alone but for the sounds of shallow water slinking steadily and slowly over rocks in the creek bed; I heard the low and lonely hoots of an owl. The water burbled on and I could breathe; the space around me felt limitless. It felt as though I was at the center of a circle of quiet; everything revolved around this place that was the middle of all things, motionless as the foot of a compass.

I went to the bottom of the ravine.

It was that evening that they announced there would be a hike Palm Sunday morning to the top of a hill where a 20-foot cross stood watch over Scotts Valley. They would depart from the administration building at 6 a.m.

Rising early enough to make it to the administration building by 6 a.m. was nearly unthinkable; fatigue had its thick claws embedded firmly in my heels, enticing me and pulling me toward a deep and warm unconsciousness. I had been looking forward all day to an early retreat, counting down the hours and minutes until I’d be able to trade my trail runners for my pajamas and wrap myself in the musty blue comforter on my bed.

I walked back to my cabin that night, feeling the pull between my profound and deeply visceral hunger for sleep, and the simultaneous voice insisting I make my way to the cross in the morning. I found myself unable to argue; to contend I was too tired to go to the cross seemed a pathetic argument. He was pulling me; He had hooked my heart and tethered to those two perpendicular wooden beams.

I met about thirty others in the darkness of the early morning of Palm Sunday, the stars and streetlights the only points of light on the mountain. I walked with a woman who was on the shuttle bus from the airport with me. We talked about our faith and our writing in a way that was easy and natural, in a way that didn’t make me feel hemmed in.

The sky was just beginning to release the indigo hues of night when we reached the summit of the hill. The outlines of the cross were beginning to become perceptible. Our guide began telling us the history of Mount Hermon, of the story about that cross and how it came to be there. I really don’t remember much of what he said.

The sun rose, yellow and orange flaming up from the horizon, giving way to blues that darkened on the way up. My fellow wayfarers stood around the cross and began singing hymns.

I really didn’t sing much either.

It was growing lighter with every minute that passed, the deep blues being exchanged for paler shades.

I planted myself at the foot of that cross. The others sang around me while the sun continued to crawl up the edge of the sky in the east. I sat at the bottom of that cross, at the unmoving center of a circle of songs. And I was quiet.

I went to the bottom of the ravine, and then I climbed to the top of the hill.

for my body {confession & reconciliation}

Dear Body,

I feel as though I owe you an apology; it is long overdue, but I’m here now, hoping that it’s not too late for a little forgiveness.

Even though you are what enables me to live and to move through the world, it seems only recently that I’ve been especially aware of you. I’ve harbored nasty feelings toward you, I’ve abused you both verbally and physically, I’ve shut you up and ignored you, chained you to a pipe in the basement and padlocked the door.

I remember the first time I was shocked into an awareness of you at the age of thirteen at summer camp, when I first passed through that bloody rite of womanhood. It was a sunny Sunday morning in July. I was wearing a polka-dotted bathing suit, on my way down to the lake to go swimming and had stopped by the restroom; that’s when I noticed. I had been educated on the matter as a fifth-grader, and I knew as much about it as a twelve-year-old could, but it still came as a terrific shock to my system. I cried and cried and cried that morning in my bunk bed, my face puffy and wet, words coming out in chokes and gasps. My counselor told me this was a beautiful gift from God, that it meant I was a woman now. But her saying that made me want to scream and rip out my hair. I didn’t know why, I just hated it.

And then things really started changing: my child’s body began to change shape without my willing it, malleable as Play-Doh without my consent. My straight, hipless form bloomed outward and pulled inward in places. My lithe form began to puff out, acquiring pounds that seemed to come from nowhere. I felt as though you had betrayed me. The child’s body was something I knew and could navigate, this new thing was foreign to me and I was trapped in it. You held me hostage.

With the added pounds came the teasing and taunts of others. I drew inward and loathed this mess of flesh I was trapped in. I was powerless to escape it and so I told you things like: you’re fat and nasty. People hate you and so do I. It would be better if you were skinnier. Lose weight, damnit!

And I continued to abuse you with my words and my thoughts. I would look in the mirror and point out all your flaws, tell you to shape up, that you were no good as you were.

Finally, I had had enough and the abuse turned physical. I started memorizing food labels and adopted a plan to get you to where I thought you needed to be. I’m in control now! I’m the boss! I restricted calories and nutrition, I put increased physical demands on you. As the puffiness diminished, as pounds evaporated, the compliments poured in and I was addicted to them. I ate them instead of food and exercised even more, feeling proud of myself for starving you. I had taught myself to love the growling in my stomach, and I chased after that emptiness more and more.

Even when others said you’re getting too skinny, I thought only of how to get skinnier, of how to make sure you really knew that I was the one in charge here. You would not hold me hostage again. The goal was always that I’d strip you of five pounds and when that was achieved, it would be five pounds yet again. And eventually my periods stopped and I could pull my tiniest pair of jeans up and down, up and down while they were fully buttoned and zipped. I felt so proud. I had tamed you.

And then came February 22, 1996, a day tattooed in my memory, a day that took us both by surprise. It was my senior year of high school and I had so much going for me. That car accident changed everything. I was only a passenger, but life changed for you in the instant that the brakes locked and that hunk of metal slid at fifty miles per hour across slick wet pavement, colliding into another car.

You hurt like you had never hurt before. I took you to the chiropractor, the massage therapist, the neurologist, the physical therapist. The pain would not stop. I lived in those doctors offices and the neck brace became a regular part of my attire until I forgot what I looked like without it. I adopted a new vocabulary, one that included phrases like soft tissue, nerve damage, and it would have been better if you had broken your neck. You and I hurt so much and we both learned to go numb.

In college the pounds came back on slowly and I let them return to you a few at a time, but begrudgingly. I was too worried about academics to concern myself with making sure I maintained a vigilant watch over you, to make sure you didn’t get out of line. But this is where I learned new ways to push you, like staying awake when you pulled me toward sleep, ingesting cup after cup of cheap black coffee heavily syruped with sugar.

I skipped meals, always reasoning that a few more minutes of study were more important than giving you those things the cafeteria attempted to pass off as food. I asked you to keep going, keep moving, keep running and denied you regular fuel. And then I’d get angry with you and call you names when you got sick or tired or achey or were sapped of energy. I berated you again and again, demanding health and energy and wellness even though I gave you nothing to work with.

Then one night my heart began to rebel, racing at several hundred beats per minute, startling me from a still sleep. The episodes continued for months and no one could find out what was going on inside you. The doctors pressed you, poked you, probed you, took blood. No charts or graphs or books could explain why you did this. Nothing changed until hands were joined in a circle around me, hands put on you, and healing called down from heaven. There were no more episodes after that, and you became a testimony of something divine reaching down to earth, touching flesh.

I began to feel differently about you then.

I felt like we got healthy after college was over when I was on my own, giving you lots of vegetables and fruits and lean proteins, exercising in a healthy way, giving you what you needed to assume a healthy shape. I felt really good, and was pleased that our relationship had improved. And then a few years ago, new things started happening that no one could explain. My stomach was stabbed with pain, and my chest burned. Several rounds with several different medicines didn’t help and we had no relief. Things escalated and got worse, and I took you to the emergency room more than once.

The ache moved down my gut. I grew sluggish and tired, fell asleep too early every night. Doctors wanted to give you vicodin and anti-depressants, but I refused. I was trying to help you and I knew innately that you did not need those things. I didn’t know what you needed, but I knew that vicodin and anti-depressants weren't the answer. I sometimes felt like you were a squealing infant and I was the parent, not knowing what you needed, not knowing how to understand where you were hurting and why. I felt so helpless. We were both trapped, chained to each other in the dark.

It took awhile, but I finally found someone who could teach me how to listen to you, who helped me learn to hear the things you were saying. In the process, I discovered other parts of you that suffered quietly: blood cells, bones, thyroid, adrenals. I learned what things were hurting you and I took them away; I got supplements to provide what you lacked, to aid in healing those places you suffered most. You had been hurting so long, and the healing is still happening. I can’t imagine that either of us will be quite the same again. But we are here now in a new normal that is healing and energized and as it should be.

So my body, I’m sorry I ignored you and said unkind things. I’m sorry for having neglected and abused you. I’m sorry I hurt you and starved you and asked impossible things of you. I’m sorry for the pain you’ve suffered, that we’ve suffered together.

We are married, you and I, and we are still learning to speak to one another, to listen with attentive ears, still learning how to move in this dance we do together. We were knit together inside my mother and we are inseparable, you and I. My mind and heart and soul are fused with you. You are how I hug my sister, talk to my friend, how I laugh and smile. You are how I dance with joy, cry out loud, and how I can write any of this down at all.

You are the first place to which I extend the most basic kindnesses and grace: food, water, rest, exercise. I marvel at your abilities to lift, stretch, bend, heal, and grow strong. You are good from your beginnings, and I am learning to honor the goodness that has been there since the moment you took form.

So I guess what I’m trying to say, body of mine, is that I’m not perfect. I wish I could promise you that I would be good to you always, that I would never transgress against you again. That I would never wish you were shaped differently, or that you weren’t sensitive to certain foods, or that you didn’t have the limits that you do. But you are the only body I have and I’m beginning to learn that you are utterly marvelous and within those limits, capable of so much.

And so I will continue on this path of learning to be good to you: to provide what you need, not demand what you cannot give, to cooperate with you; to listen to you and respond appropriately to the things you say; to give you compassion. And I’m learning that in return, you give me the ability to embody fully the life I’ve been given, to give my own unique shape to love, sadness, happiness, friendship, and faith.

I guess what I’m saying is that I have your back, good body of mine, and that I know you have mine; that we will learn this dance together, giving one another grace for the journey.

confession photo by kirsten.michelle

Linkage love {check out links to this post}:

pain in the neck (and back) by betsy

there's something about belonging by miriam

crazy raw beautiful energy

went to a jazz concert last night: chris botti @ jazz alley in seattle.

crazy raw beautiful energy passion spirit freedom life love beautiful love

i opened myself up to the music, let it enter my blood, granted it permission to weave its way through me, and felt the tingle of tired parts of my heart waking up. let myself feel alive, moved, playful. carried and buoyant.

knowing this is only the beginning.

[more to come, friends. more to come ...]

check out more jazz alley photos by kirsten.michelle

transcendent

Deep. Special. Amazing. Blessed. Grateful. Sacred. Thank you.

These are all words that were common to my vocabulary this past week, words which only scratch the surface of what Christianne and I experienced. For women who have identified their calling to be writers in this world, it is amazing how often we were rendered incapable of speech this week; how many times the experiences we shared transcended language.

We had both been in prayer for this week long before I got on the plane, asking God to make it what He would have it to be. He did. Every moment was rich and dripping with divine blessing. There were a few plans in place, but mostly we left our time open to the movement of the Holy Spirit. And He moved. There were tears, there was laughter. There was conversation and there was silence. There was joy and grief and amazement. There were extended hands and open arms.

And there was always a deep and abiding love.

I am certain that I've never experienced friendship like this before; there is a deep and hidden place in my heart that only she may occupy. How rare and beautiful a gift; I hold it close. I hold her as dear. On a day when cloaked and hidden things rose to the surface of our hearts and spilled out of our lips, we were there to minister to one another; to tend to those tender and most vulnerable places.

I imagine that in the coming days and weeks, we will allow our shared and individual experiences from this week to sink into our bones and flesh, to allow them become a part of who we are in a deep and visceral way. Though I look forward to sharing from our time together, there are some things that I may continue to ponder in my own heart, to hold as sacred and secret for a time, much like Mary did when she received the news that the Messiah would make her womb His home.

It was a privilege to share these days with you, Christianne; to be in your home, share meals with you, to hold your hands and be at the center of your embrace; to laugh and to cry and to pray with you; to entrust each other with places in our hearts that we have been in the habit of hiding away. To share our story in the StoryCorps van; to dance and play at the seashore; to speak affectionately to alligators and our breakfasts. To share life itself.

Until we meet again, friend; I hold you in that place in my heart, the place reserved only for you. There is always a place for you here. Love to you.

NOTE: To see some photos from our week together, click on the link of Florida pics below my profile information. Enjoy!

remembering grandpa rocky

Today my family gathered at my parents' home for a New Year's Day meal together. I think it has something to do with turning 30 soon, but I have long been wanting to go through the many albums and boxes of family photos: to see photos from my childhood, to have memories triggered by photographs.

So we went downstairs and pulled out the old albums and poured through the photos, laughing and remembering. Mom pulled out a photo I had never seen before. It was her dad, my Grandpa Rocky (whose real name was Clarence) holding me as a baby. I cannot be more than a month old; probably even younger than that.

with grandpa rocky, january 1978

Grandpa Rocky died in Feburary 1993 when I was barely fifteen years old; he has been gone just as long as I knew him. It's such a strange feeling. Grandpa Rocky was a full-blooded Dane and not afraid to let you know it. He had a bold, brash, and dry sense of humor. He loved sneaking up on us and cracking our toes, or asking me to play "Who hit Nelly in the belly with the spade?" on the piano. I remember riding in his big white pick-up with him and how he would open the door while driving and spit outside. He often ended up wearing at least part of whatever meal he might be eating, an unfortunate trait I've inherited. The man had a variety of colorful careers in his life including Navy sailor, bartender, longshoreman, and dock-worker. He always made us laugh.

It was a year or two ago I learned that he was married before he met my grandmother. They had a son together, my Mom's half-brother. His first wife cheated on him while he was deployed and serving in the Navy; she flaunted herself about town with a variety of other men. Receiving the news via telegram from his mother while in the middle of the ocean, he was devastated and heartbroken. His despair was so profound and sent him into such a deep depression, it rendered him unfit for active duty. Consequently, he was given an honorable discharge.

Some time after he returned home, he went to a restaurant one day where my grandmother was waitressing. Finding her attractive he said to her, "Hey there Blue Eyes, you can call me Rocky", and though Grandma was tempted not to give him the time of day, she had to appreciate his humor. And that was how their courtship began. "Rocky" was a nickname he had never had before, but bestowed upon himself in that moment and carried with him through the remainder of his life.

He has often shown up in dreams I've had, and sometimes the oddest things will trigger memories of him, moving me to tears. Though he was not one to wear his heart on his sleeve, I think I've understood recently how much I am like him, how much my heart is like his own, how deeply he felt things even though he rarely showed it. I wonder if like me, he felt deeply but often held back, afraid to come out from behind the tough outer shell. I understand now better than while he was alive how much he loved us all, and how much he loved me. Sometimes I'll get the oddest feeling, like he's still nearby, looking over my shoulder.

I think I am so moved by this picture because it is such a rare moment where his tender heart and gentleness are on display. So many things come flooding into my heart when I see this. I still miss him. And I can't help but think too that this might as well be a picture of me and my Heavenly Father, in whose arms I gently rest. I am held and I am safe and I am loved.

letter to a friend

Dear Friend,

As I write this, I think of how it's just the kind of day here that you say you love: overcast and cloudy, raindrops pelting the pavement, forming ankle-deep puddles in the landscape outside my window. It's an introspective kind of day and I wanted to share some things with you.

I suppose it's natural that as this year draws to a close, that I pause to look over my shoulder and remember what has been. 2007 has been full for me: two break-ups, a completely funky and undiagnosed stomach condition, a new job, a new house, having my dreams for writing come to the fore, and cutting this brush through the wilds of faith. I think of how our Yahweh brought us together again after years of not seeing one another and how what we have now is deep and amazing and baffling and so full of love and higher things. I have been considering what all these big changes and transitions are in my life, and I can't help but think of how instrumental you have been in helping me move through them: you have been loving, available, and walked beside me even though neither of us understood. Your heart journeyed closely beside my own somehow, mysteriously but unmistakably across the miles. You invited me to walk beside you too, a privilege that is not lost on me. I am honored to have a place beside you, to be witness to the grace and mercy and love that is unfolding and blooming so beautifully in your own heart. How this all happened I can't really know, except that your being here made the going better and kept me moving when I was most in danger of losing steam.

I can't help but think that had it not been for your presence, your ability to be a vessel for Christ, that all those things would have me assuming a fetal position some days, utterly overwhelmed and cowering under the covers, losing hope and faith and lessons and the grace that was mysteriously lavished on me through it all. Watching you helped me to give my own heart and mind and messiness to God with open hands, trusting with the smallest measure of faith that He'd bring something out of it. And now He's truly given me beauty for ashes. Because I've seen God give us abundantly more than we could ever ask or dream or imagine in return for what pathetic little offerings we give to Him, I believe with greater certainty than ever that He truly has us at the center of His heart. It is all too magnificent to comprehend, and this is only a shadow of what we look forward to. I'm in utter marvel!!

You friendship was a buoy when I felt otherwise lost at sea. I know you also encountered plenty over the past year that must have made you feel this way, too. If we had to feel shipwrecked, I'm glad we were together in it, trusting that we'd be swept home by heaven-sent currents.

God is great, my friend. So great. And I just wanted to let you know that you have a lot to do with the fact that I know that for sure.