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.

watch over me

watch over me by kirsten michelle (2010)

There aren't many words to my prayers these days. I find myself sending wordless thoughts and images, requests, petitions for which I cannot find the language, confident that the meaning of these things will not be lost in translation -- that they are better communicated as they are. No words. Just the pulses and surges of heart and soul.

So many unknowns looming in front of us: Ewan's heart. The lack of prospects (still -- after more than a year of looking) for James finding a job here. Given that, not knowing how soon after the birth I will need to return to work so we can make ends meet. These mysteries will break my heart if I let them.

Breathe. Trust. Pray.

Watch over me. Please, watch over me.

looking up

There are a lot of things wrong with the world. On a much smaller level, there are many things about our life right now that I would change, had I the power to do it. James would have a job -- preferably one that brought in a decent income and didn't drive him nuts (ooh, and that has good benefits). The price of oil would be up and the wells in which we're invested would be top producers. My baby wouldn't have a heart defect.

As hopeful as I am about each of these things, as much blessing as I've experienced in the course of things being exactly as they are, I still have my moments where I just want to wave a magic "fix it" stick and have it all be better the way I want it.

I had a very honest moment with Jesus today in which I told Him just that. That sometimes I'm tired of it and just want a break. That as glad as I am that what we're going through means He's loving us and disciplining us toward holiness, sometimes I just wish it could all be the way I want it to be -- in truth, even though the reality of it completely disgusts me -- a little like a gospel of prosperity: if you love Jesus and obey Him, He will give you health and wealth and the American dream to boot!

I know it doesn't work that way. And on many levels, I'm deeply and profoundly thankful that it doesn't.

These thoughts got me to wondering: say things really did turn out the way I wanted. Say Ewan was miraculously healed (or, the doctors said, "Oops, sorry, we had the wrong baby!"), James had the perfect job, and everything was peachy. Say everything in my life had been this way: no challenge, no troubles, no resistance. What would I be like? Would I have any depth or strength or character? Would I care about the things I care about? Would I even be me?

I have a strong suspicion that without any kind of resistance in my life, without trials, hardships, whatever you will call them -- I would be vapid and shallow, disinterested and entirely uninteresting. I couldn't relate to anyone. I just might be the kind of person, who when she heard the poor had run out of bread to eat would say: "Then let them eat cake!" (which, by the way, Marie Antoinette didn't really say either).

What's true of our bodies is true of our spirits, our souls, our whole persons as well: strength is built when an opposing force is resisted. I've written about this before. Just like strength of body, strength of spirit doesn't "just happen" either. Someone who lounges on the sofa eating Doritos all day cannot expect to have a toned and muscled body, and neither can a spiritual couch potato expect to be a saint, or to achieve the holiness Christ desires for us. Previously, I wrote this:

Make no mistake: getting stronger hurts. It is a slow process. If we look at this from a physiological point of view again, getting stronger requires that we deliberately engage our muscles against the weight we are lifting. It requires that we repeat the motion of lifting or pressing, engaging our muscles repeatedly to the point of fatigue. In so doing, muscle fibers are broken down ... In the days of rest that follow, the fibers are built back up, stronger than they were before. And we do it again and again.

Ouch. Yeah. Good reminder to myself.

The funny thing about all this is is that when I write, I tend to put the stronger stuff out there: the things that I can reason and know, sometimes at the expense of what I actually feel. But the truth is, oftentimes they butt up against each other, like two boxers with gloves braced, and I wonder if one reality might punch the lights out of the other. And sometimes I get stuck between them, feeling the push and pull from both sides.

This is when I need to be reminded to look up: look up to our High Priest -- the one Who is able to sympathize with our weaknesses, the one Who was tested just as we are. This is when I need to be reminded what it's all for. I need to remember that if I'm to run a good race, I will get tripped up if I spend too much time looking down at my feet, or veer off course if too much time is spent looking over my shoulder. I need to look up. And when I tire, wishing I could know what and how and when -- this is when I need to remember that I will never know what and how and when (maybe not even in retrospect), but I do know Who.

Jesus. One foot in front of the other, breathing His name with every step.

photo taken by james // processing by me

becoming catholic: part 1

I've not yet discussed it explicitly here, but I've left a hint or two along the way. It's something I've been meaning to write about for awhile and seeing as the journey will reach a kind of culmination in the coming weeks, I find it fitting to write about it here now.

As the Part 1 portion of the title of this post suggests, this is something I will be writing about over a series of posts, knowing I won't be able to address this subject adequately in a single entry.

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.

A note on additional reading/resources: At the end of each post, I will attempt to point to additional resources that were helpful to us in our search.

* * * * *

An introduction
By way of providing a little background, allow me to present a bird's-eye view of my upbringing. I was brought up in a Christian home by wonderful, loving, and imperfect parents. I loved Jesus and the Bible from an early age and even in my earliest years, don't doubt the sincerity of that. We went to an evangelical, non-denominational church that was in many respects like extended family. This love for Jesus grew and in my high school years, burst into something new and altogether consuming. I read my Bible almost constantly and knew my life would be centered around my faith.

I went to and graduated from a Christian university and after moving home, continued my involvement in church. I worked with the youth group, led a Bible study, and continued in my personal devotion. It was just three years ago that I met someone who professed what he referred to as Traditional Catholicism which, in practice and in statement of belief, is different from what the majority of Catholics profess today (it would take volumes to explain the differences; the link above provides a good overview). After seriously considering conversion, I came to the conclusion that I could not accept the views of God and Jesus with which I was presented there. And so I returned to my evangelical roots, and was warmly welcomed upon my return.

An unexpected pit-stop
Fast forward to September of 2009. It was Labor Day weekend and James and I (married not quite four months at this point) were making a road trip south primarily to pick up some things he had in storage in the Modesto/Manteca area, but also to visit several friends and acquaintances we had there. We stopped in Redding at a coffee-shop to grab a bite to eat, this stop still about three and a half hours away from our destination. As I waited for our meals, James sat down to someone who, by the telltale collar, was obviously a priest. Another sat with him dressed in black, a novitiate preparing for the priesthood.

James was raised Catholic and left the church when he was 19, having some objections about certain doctrines that appeared to be incompatible with Scripture. But not one to shy away from any theological or intellectual discussion, I wasn't surprised that he chose a seat at a table with two obviously Catholic guests at this coffee house.

Door table at Yak's Koffee
Redding, CA

We exchanged the usual pleasantries and launched into a discussion that while neither of us could forget it, we also found that we could not later recall all the specifics. James discussed his background with the church, his passion for the Catholic church when he was growing up, and the reasons why he left. The discussion was spirited, passionate, and sincere amongst the four of us involved. We discussed what it means to be "saved", and I remember feeling like all of us had been challenged. I hadn't ever seen my husband quite so emotional or flustered. But I remember walking away from that discussion the distinct impression that the bulk of the challenge was ours.

They made a lot of good points, I said as we returned to the truck. A lot of them. He didn't disagree.

We talked about it for the remainder of our drive. We knew it was something we had to look into if we were going to be intellectually and spiritually honest. Given our backgrounds, neither of us had been looking for this. Both of us had been burned in our very different experiences of Catholicism, and were understandably a little gun shy about giving it another look. Besides which, we were very newly married and not looking to introduce this kind of huge change so early on.

Coming home
Upon our return home, the research began. James spent hours reading Scripture, the church fathers, studying the teachings and beliefs of the protestant reformers, and looking at church websites. He found video testimonies both Protestant and Catholic, looked deeply into Catholic doctrine by way of the Catechism, and learned about the differences between how Catholics and Protestants approach the Christian faith. We learned about the Canon of scripture, and authority, and read some of the less commonly known writings from the reformers, many of which turned our stomachs.

This went on for about three weeks. Every day when I came home from work, he'd summarize his findings. More than one day, I remember him saying, This is tearing me apart. It was clear that he was exhausted, emotionally, spiritually, and physically. Torn apart seemed an apt enough description.

And so it was. It was tearing us both apart. What we had found was turning our world upside-down.


For further reading:
Reasons to Believe: How to Understand, Explain, and Defend the Catholic Faith by Scott Hahn (Hahn is a former Protestant minister who converted to Catholicism in 1986)
Catechism of the Catholic Church

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!!