an old man

I have a night off. I usually work Monday nights, but here in the middle between Christmas and New Year's, there are no classes. So here I sit with a glass of wine, some candles burning, two books to choose from, and three or four notebooks (and a variety of pens!) within arm's reach. I even have a blanket and two dogs.
It's been an interesting week. I have an appointment with my therapist tomorrow, so I am doing my bi-weekly barometer check to determine if there is anything particularly pressing to talk about. And to review how much of his advice I've followed, considered, or ignored.
And what I keep coming back to is Simeon. Somehow growing up I completely missed anything about him - and Anna - in Bible stories and in church. Somewhere along the line, I had the impression of him as kind of a weird old guy hanging around the temple. I imagined Mary and Joseph being really uncomfortable when approached by Simeon and Anna. I imagined them being rather possessive of their newborn, and having to be polite while these people took their son, passed him around, and said rather scary things.
Simeon had faith. Deep faith in a promise he knew came to him from God himself. For most of my life, I have feared anyone with faith that deep. Heck - people with faith half or a quarter as deep! All those times I missed his story, i really was avoiding him. Sidestepping him like I would anyone who might try to tell me something about any faith or religion. I don't know all the reasons for that fear, that discomfort. I'm very conscious of the fact that I may resemble one of those people I would avoid, and I sometimes check my words, my actions, even my thoughts, accordingly.
And I feel lousy about it.
At one time, not terribly long ago, I saw Simeon as this guy who hung around the temple wanting to just die already. In my mind, shaped as it was (we're working on it), so much had been categorized as "good" or "bad." "Dead" fell in the "bad" category, as did fear, anger, even frustration. And doubt. Praying for courage helped me find Simeon in another place in my soul.
When the boys were small, just about the only thing I ever prayed for was patience. It took a real long while of coming just short of screaming at God that if he didn't hurry up with the patience I was going to go through the roof for me to realize that I was being given opportunities to practice patience, to hone the skill. I quit asking when I drew the conclusion that asking for patience meant that I'd have more in my life to make me impatient. And yet, when I was told "Pray for courage," I dove right in without considering where that might take me. It took a while before I recognized that I was remembering things I'd been afraid of, seeing them from different directions, opening doors into dark spaces in my heart. Last week, it occurred to me that the fear was what I was looking for - not the things that made me afraid. The fear itself was the gift. And I was less afraid. The fear is not "bad," it just is.
Simeon became a man with a dream, a goal, and a purpose. I have a unique purpose, just like Simeon. After Simeon held that newborn child, he knew his life was complete, that there was nothing else that could ever top that moment. He felt. And that's what had always made me uncomfortable - feeling; deeply and profoundly feeling anything - the "good" and the "bad." For me feeling always connected to judgement.
We're working on it.

rest my bones

I'm tired. I slept less than I should have last night, and should really just crawl into bed now (or, really, about a half hour ago) and go to sleep. I'm fighting it. Why? I'd welcome guesses. Mostly because I don't want to admit to myself that I might have some ideas.

First of all, I have a small project I could be working on. It's a draft of a letter that I won't even be sending, but that we decided I should help with. I sent one draft already -- not a great one, but I knew that if I didn't start it yesterday when I had a few minutes, I would put it off until Sunday sometime, and I really didn't like that idea. Or how that would make me feel like I looked. (And that's a funny thing, actually, because I'm far less concerned with how the first version makes me look than how a little procrastination might look. I judge myself kinda harshly. We're working on that...)

Next, husband and most of the kids are not home. Three of those four that are not home are more than capable of getting themselves back home, into bed, and off to dreamland with no intervention from me whatsoever. I know that full well. I miss them all, though, even though they've only been gone a few hours. I'm a bit of a sap when it comes to the Team. (We're not working on that. No problem there.) I'll never make it until all of them are home, but a girl can dream while she's awake.

And that's likely the real reason I don't want to face or think about. A few weeks ago, a friend and I were talking, and working out a problem in dreams came up. I mentioned that I hadn't dreamed in months, which is unusual because I normally remember that I've had dreams, even when I can't remember any of the content. There was an aspect of prayer as an element in that conversation, and a suggestion that praying for guidance in my dreams might be helpful. Since that day, I've had a couple of dreams -- but here's the thing: usually when I realize I haven't dreamed in a while, or when I've had a particularly strange dream, I work at avoiding them. How do I do that? I stay awake and make myself overtired in an effort to eventually fall too deeply asleep to dream. I've made a few daylight connections in the past couple of days, and might be avoiding any other connections getting worked out in my sleep. (This is a weird area, because on one side of my life, I have someone who is fascinated by dreams and what they reveal, and on the other, I have an opposing view: dreams are just dreams. They are a playground for daytime thoughts. It doesn't seem we're working on that....)

As a result of just these three things, I found myself nearly dozing while listening to the end of tonight's lesson on my computer, my eyes are really heavy, and I'm wanting a snack. I think it's time to dish up a scoop or two of ice cream, and get ready to turn in. But before I turn off the light, as I say my evening prayers, I will try to remember to apologize for avoiding sleep, and ask for the grace to accept rest when I need it. I push myself too hard, which, when combined with my tendency to judge myself harshly, can become a rather ugly combination.

Good night, all.

ghosts of the past

Christmas is such a beautiful holiday, full of meaning and tradition. At least, that's how I picture it. Tonight at dinner, I was asked what traditions I grew up with. Interestingly, I had been thinking about that very question this morning. I answered as truthfully as I could: I don't know that I remember real traditions from my childhood. Instead I told about some of the things we did when the boys were small, but even then I wondered if they really count as traditions.
As a kid, I do remember watching Dad and my brothers putting lights on the pine tree in front of the house - or rather, I remember the year they tried, but it had gotten too tall for the ladder and amount of lights. I remember going with Dad to pick out a tree to cut down, and the time the tree had to wait in the garage for a few days because the stand needed to be rebuilt. And the year we had a Christmas Bush -  a cube of evergreen that overtook the room because it hadn't looked quite so big growing in the back yard.
Every year we had opłatki before dinner, but I didn't know where it came from. I think Grammy brought it. Gramma Katie always supplied a summer sausage. Dad always left a candle burning in the front window to welcome weary or wayward travelers. (If any had ever come to our door, I don't know what we would have done with them!)
What I remember most, though, and was never able to talk about (because who would believe me?) was my feeling that something was missing; that I was missing something. Who would ever believe that in our Christmas celebration, with boxes and paper and bows, something else could ever be needed? I realized this week that what I most wanted - what I still most crave - is time, along with a little knowledge of who I am. As a result, many of my memories of Christmases past are tinged with sadness, or tension. Sort of like a pebble in my soul's shoe. It has slowly and steadily chipped away at my Christmas spirit, until a few days ago when I thought perhaps it was gone form me completely.
Last night before Mass, I asked for the grace to be guided, to start fresh, as a baby myself. I thought of it as the beginning, my beginning. After Mass we ate, laughed, and visited with friends - family, really. Most of today we spent together with some good old-fashioned family time, and tonight we sat in on traditions of more friends who feel like family. The best part about this Christmas? It did not feel like anything at all was missing. There are people we missed, for sure, but the day felt complete.
Beautifully so.
Merry Christmas. Joy to the World! 

time and time

Yesterday was a dark, damp, dreary and miserable day. Despite working on a sewing project (which I love to do!) I managed to find myself kinda cranky. Some things in the back of my mind were not moving in any way that I wanted them to, and I felt behind in the world outside my sewing room door. In retrospect, those things meant very little, but at the time, in those chilled toes moments, they loomed large. At one point, with frustration at the time slipping away, I asked for a little relief. "Lord, let me know what I'm supposed to do about this timing. Please!" The next song on the radio made me cry, as it usually does, and immediately after it, I got an email telling me not to worry about the timing. (Seriously!)
That's really the lesson I've been working on. I'm sure of it because it became a theme for the day. The more I try to control or gauge the timing of things I think I have control over, the more they seem to frustrate me. Or worse, go awry. At least in my mind. And I'm finding my mind is a very crowded and confusing place at times.
Much later in the day, talking with my therapist, I mentioned that I admire his confidence in me and my progress, because I have a hard time knowing that I'm getting anywhere. We talked about time then, and the fact that there is no reason for a minute to contain 60 seconds, or even for a second to be the length of a Mississippi (which is pretty ironic, actually). It's all arbitrary and man-made -- because of our human need to to try to exert control. He then reminded me of all the beautiful readings in the last few weeks about time. God's time.
And that God's time is perfect.
And I am (wondrously) not.
When I give things over to God's time, beautiful things happen. I still must do my part -- practice new skills, step out of old habits, stand and speak (perhaps) where I haven't before -- but with God's grace, I am able to grow in His love into the woman I am intended to be. This morning I am more aware that I am not there yet, but with a clearer view of the journey, as well as the destination. Some parts will be difficult, painful or frightening, but only to me. As part of something bigger, I will not only endure them, but 'see' them. They are building blocks.
Two people I go to for guidance, and who sometimes have differing viewpoints on where I'm headed, gave me the same thoughts this week: What is the purpose of this painful/difficult experience/memory? How is it building me? What is it, Lord, that you need me to glean from it?
Time. Patience. Growth. Progress. Love. All words with meaning far more expansive than our definitions can ever be. 

fibers and focus

Today is a stitching day. I'll be spending it at my sewing machine and ironing board, focusing on straight and even lines of thread. This act of focus often allows me to let my mind wander, a form of hypnosis, I suppose. As I link the pieces of fabric together, I also begin to stitch together memories, questions, dreams. Today I have some special prayers to meditate on, and while I sew, I'll offer them up.

With my sewing project, I know the end result, my aim. I don't know entirely what I'm seeking as I pray. Sometimes that's why I sew or knit when I have questions or when I talk to God. It's like those helpful parenting articles I used to read (in my mother's magazines as a teenager myself, actually) that suggested talking to kids about "tough topics" while driving in the car. There is both a level of distraction in not having to be face-to-face, and a level of captivity in sitting in a moving vehicle. When I work a project while I pray, I'm a little trapped by the scope, a little distracted in my focus on something else.

That's not to say I don't pray face-to-face. Or that I don't ever focus exclusively on the One to whom I'm conversing. Just that today, with the needs I have - both in my heart and in Christmas preparation - I am grateful that the Lord and I can work side by side today. That I can have time with Him always. And that we both know that I will, at some point today (when my alarm goes off) I will simply sit at His feet.

lighter, fresh and new

Tonight I went to confession. Our parish had an Advent communal penance service. Not too long ago, I told myself -- convinced myself completely -- that attending and saying the Act of Contrition with everyone else was enough. For years I didn't sit one-on-one with a priest. Many years, indeed.

Some people I've talked to speak of bad confession experiences. Others doubt the need to speak sins aloud. Still others have told me they don't ever do anything that would require confessing. I didn't go because I'm a crier. Lots of things make me cry and I simply didn't know if that was okay.

A couple of years ago, I started thinking about going again. I worried, I fretted, I tried to talk myself out of it, but I went. And as I confessed, I felt lighter. And I felt like there was a possibility that I really was forgiven. Still, it took a bit of encouragement from my pastor before I considered going again.

Now I go frequently (comparatively speaking, anyway), every month or two. I've had some interesting experiences -- Like the time I realized that through my tears the priest had misunderstood me, and was absolving me of some other sin entirely! And the time the priest asked "Is that it?" when I finished. (To be fair, there is a way to finish up that I always forget. Something about "for these and all my other sins...") But all in all, it's always worth the planning, the soul searching, and the standing in line.

Tonight as we read the Act of Contrition together as a parish family, I thought of all those I love who were not there. I thought of some new friends of mine who wonder just what the sacrament is. I thought of those who don't celebrate the sacrament any more for various reasons. I thought of how much of my heart each of them occupies, and about how much more of the Father's heart we occupy, and how, really, everything pales in comparison.

I confessed where I knew I'd fallen short in faith, hope and love. And now I feel lighter. Ready to start again, fresh and new. Wrapped in God's embrace.

giving thanks

After Mass this morning, amid the joyful greetings of faith family members, one in particular stood out. A woman I've seen, whom I recognize but had never matched a name to, approached and hugged me. She wished me a happy Thanksgiving, then said, "I've been praying for you." When I thanked her, lowering my eyes, she continued: "I realize we've never actually met, but I really wanted to pray for you both." She was referring to a drive I took halfway across the country with a friend about a month ago. "I'm glad you had a safe trip," she concluded, and moved on.

There is so much about the exchange that stirs my heart. There is simple gratitude for the prayers, and the very true acknowledgement that I felt them, even without knowing where or who was offering them. Beyond that is the greater wonder of what made the exchange possible in the first place; the journey that continues to teach me so much about gratitude.
I've gone to church just about all my life. A majority of that time, I went out of simple obligation - to my parents, to my husband, to my kids, to my designation as Catholic - rather than any appreciation for my faith, or gratitude for what faith means. There was a time when I would willingly say that I went despite the lack of meaning to me personally. In a nutshell, I went so I could say that I did.

So much has changed for me in recent years. God's mercy is such that I am still welcome in this place that I used so casually, so carelessly. Welcomed by near strangers as easily as by thise who have become dear friends - family, even. Welcomed by Him at any time, day or night, even though I am still sometimes wracked with guilt for how cavalier I've sometimes been. My home, my true home, is with God, and every single time I walk into His house (wherever that roof happens to be) I am overwhelmed with gratitude for the opportunity. In His mercy, I am renewed, refreshed.

For what am I most thankful today? That's the question that came to mind when I first woke this morning. The answer has been floating through my mind and heart all morning. Clearly there are the most obvious: home, family, friends, jobs. But lately the word in my prayer has been 'more.' I've wondered what that could mean - more for, more from, more to? For today, more means all that I have and all that's coming. I already have more than I could ever have imagined, and yet someone I really didn't know offered me more this morning. There is no way to measure the love and mercy of God.

For that, I am most thankful today. 

days and nights

Not terribly long ago, I would come home and remember Sunday nights spent lazily at home, finishing whatever chores or projects pushed off to the end of the weekend. I wondered how many Sundays in a row it would take before I felt like I needed a break. Sunday after Sunday I wondered; Thursday after planning meeting Thursday, I did the same. And yet, each meeting refreshed and rejuvenated me; gave me new purpose, direction, love for the teens we were working with, for. Without realizing it, Sunday has become something other than routine. It's become real. Real worship, real teaching, real learning, real conversation. Real friendship.

Staying home with our firstborn, there were times when I wondered about the return on investment involved in being Momma. Having no family around, and only having lived in the area a very short time when he was born, there were many, many long and quiet - often lonely - hours spent on long walks in the woods, sitting on the floor, or rocking him to sleep. In short, lots of time to think and wonder. I remember one day when I was sick, but still Momming, as Moms do the world over, and he began to sing to me. The words I sang to him as he fell asleep were coming back to me, and I realized the ROI is more than just intangible - it's priceless.

Lately I've felt that same awe and wonder when I watch and listen to our kids. Only they really are hardly kids any longer. They are men and near men, and what they share of their hearts amazes me. The fact that I've been around to watch them grow and develop into the fine young men they are is humbling and thrilling, awesome and amazing. That they share with me, that I have the opportunity to learn who they are (from them!), that I can enjoy their company simply because they are is sometimes overwhelming. In all honesty, they have molded me far more than I could ever have molded them. We listen to each other. We've all grown. And I'm gratefully speechless.

at your feet

There are two pumpkin pies in the oven. Last week in our CSA share, we found a pie pumpkin, and I determined I was going to give this a go. They smell fantastic, but I am nervously checking on the crust periodically. God did not gift me with crust crimping skills, or with much luck when it comes to one crust pies not burning. We'll see, but I am pretty excited about them. Baking them has been an all day process, interspersed with some other food preparation -- including cooling time after roasting the pumpkin.

When I went to bed last night, my plan for the day was all laid out. But I woke this morning with a scratchy throat and a drippy nose. Not terrible, but enough to make me happy that I hadn't planned on going in to work and wondering if the cooking and baking would get done. I kept the day to just those activities, foregoing other errands I had been adding to my list. At lunchtime, I made some tea, intending to rest up a bit  by praying and doing some scripture homework before continuing with the pie. Before I could even begin, our youngest came home for lunch. A quick visit later, I wondered if I should just get the pies in the oven before I went up to finish what I hadn't even started. "No," I told myself, "sit down and rest a bit."

Of all the stories in the Bible that strike a chord with me, there is one in particular that for a long time gave me more discomfort than comfort. It took me a really long time -- most of my life so far, actually -- to even begin to consider why. Today I wrote in my Sacred Space, "How fitting that I spent the morning 'doing' and almost let myself get distracted by more doing when I decided to sit, read, and pray! ...." Mary and Martha have been duking it out in my heart for years. At times I've wondered why Jesus was so hard on Martha, or so easy on Mary, or even paid any attention to either of them. I've wondered why Martha addressed her problem to Jesus, instead of to Mary directly. I've wondered why Mary doesn't even speak. A year or so ago, the debate came up again: in different places over the course of an entire week, I came across some mention of Mary and Martha and Jesus. Having no idea why the series of mentions, I kept it all in my pondering place. Weeks later, after an experience that clarified Mary's place in the story to me, I began to utter a promise each day. "I will sit at your feet and listen."

Although I say it every day, I know I am not very good at actually doing it. I sit sometimes. I listen sometimes. I don't always make a point of just sitting and listening with the intention of hearing the story, of sharing the moment, of being right there, of being. Many times, I sit to listen, to hear. Mary was doing more than that. Martha could possibly have heard what Jesus was saying while she went about her chores. Perhaps that was part of her frustration: Mary would have been able to hear as she walked about, doing while the sound of His voice carried through the house. What Martha missed was the experience of hearing. The subtle nuances of facial expression and body language that enhance or change the meaning of the words, even ever so slightly. The occasional eye contact that emphasizes a point. The silent shake of the head that signals another thought flitting through the speaker's mind. The responses of the others there listening as well. Martha may well have been able to hear the words, but Mary was there to experience the story. When I make a point to do more than simply listen, to focus on where I am and what I might hear, or say, I find that I often feel more. I pick up on little things I might have otherwise missed. When I make a point to listen, to experience in prayer, I find that I listen better and experience more in my life, with my family and my friends. I'm less distracted, less likely to find some thing to do.

I will. I will sit at your feet, and listen to your stories, to your voice, to you."

visiting the path

Something happened today that put me in a tailspin. It hurt. It kicked me in the ribs. It removed any chance of concentration from the moments afterward. It also showed me that I have, indeed, grown, learned, moved forward. With no idea how I was feeling, my first impulse was to talk to Jesus -- literally. Walking to the prayer path on the grounds of the church where I work, I talked to myself first, determining what my feelings were, and asking myself why each feeling came to mind. I listened to the responses as they came, even managing to dismiss one or two. "No, that's not really the reason I'm feeling this way. Try again." By the time I rested my head on Jesus's knee, I was able to identify just what I felt, what didn't feel right. I hurt. Bad. And I knew that it was only marginally related to the event that had transpired. What really hurt was deep down, far in the recesses of my heart, where I was bleeding. As I leaned on the statue, I prayed a deeply heartfelt prayer: I complained, I cried, I stomped my feet and said it wasn't fair, or right, or anything I wanted to deal with. But mostly I begged for help: "Hold me. Help me. Hear me. Love me." Turning to see the steeple of the church, I cried out, "This is my home! You are my God!"

Lately I've been asking the Lord to open my heart, to open me; I can see it happening when I close my eyes. I've been asking Mary to unravel the tangle of memories, fears, and pain inside. I've been asking, I guess, for clarity and vision. All of that praying on the path today,  -- where the sun didn't quite reach me, so the light breeze sliced my skin slightly -- stung me, yet comforted me. Lately in my asking, I've found that I feel more real, more honest in my words, my thanks, my pleas, more vulnerable. This relationship is deepening, becoming more comfortable and comforting. I stood there, tears running down my cheeks, still hurting, but keeping in mind things that my pastor, my therapist, my husband, my brother, my dearest friends have all told me -- about who I am, who they see. Most of all, I had in my mind, along with the hurt that doesn't just disappear with prayer (for me, just yet, anyway), the words of God, the glimpses He gives me of who I am, and who I am to be. I said the Lord's Prayer and walked back to the office and my work.

A couple of hours later, washing the dinner dishes, I realized I am now in a different place. Allowing myself to feel, to identify myself in the feelings, to pray and to cry brought with it the gift of passing through the pain, rather than holding it. The wound is still there, but no longer bleeding or as raw. Laughter with a friend at work this afternoon helped (in my estimation that 'laughter as medicine' thing is spot on!), as did sharing with key people. What made me see I was new? T-shirts. As I washed the dishes, I found myself wondering about, designing, requesting, utilizing T-shirts for an area of my work. I laughed right out loud, grateful for the epiphany. God is so very good, when we get out of His way, open the door, and invite Him in.

Isaiah 41:13

backleading....again

Today, while working on learning and getting comfortable with a tricky Foxtrot combination (though not beyond our skill level, we were repeatedly assured!), there were times when the steps, the motion, the fluidity just wasn't there. "I think that was me," I told my husband. "I'm not sure what I'm doing, but I think I'm off." Our instructor took my hand to lead me down the floor, and almost immediately told me (and everyone) that I was backleading; depending more on myself to get down the floor than on my partner. It's not a new problem or habit for me. In fact, it's rather familiar. Letting go a little made the combination flow better -- more fun and fluid for both of us.

I got back to the corner where we were starting our passes down the floor, and a classmate said, "It's all rather biblical." I agreed (it really, truly is) and took a quick stock of where I am, and why lately I've been feeling so 'independent' when we dance.

The truth is, how well I follow at dance class very closely corresponds to where I am in my heart and in my mind. And lately I've been working hard at mending, healing, becoming. And the road has not been smooth or easy. There's lots of skidding and jack-rabbit starts, lots of riding the brake, and wishing I could coast. I'm resisting, and although it seems to me that I'm the only one who could notice, it's glaringly obvious when I have a dance partner. This internal struggle, the fears related to it, and even the progress that I do see all combine to bind up some of the creativity that we are trying to unveil. Independence and resistance are more comfortable to me that I would like.

A couple of weeks ago, I was presented with an idea that is still radical to me: "You don't have to do this alone. You can, but it will take longer and will be harder. It's up to you." This was my therapist, encouraging me to seek out and trust further the people in my life that can help me to apply what I'm learning. Not only the skills, but the truth of who I am, in the eyes of others, and in the eyes of God. Almost immediately I shared the idea with a friend, and mulled it over. I don't have to do it alone. I can, but I don't have to. Realizing he was also talking about allowing God to work in my life didn't take long. Within hours of asking Him in, asking for continued guidance, support, help, little things began to happen that showed me who I could begin to lean on, to share with, the become with. Unexpected visits, encounters, messages each showed me the generous nature of God's love in my healing.

And yet I still resist some. A fearful, tearful meltdown on my kitchen floor. An emotional morning at work. A question of where I am on my journey. All related to resistance. "Just trust Him," I was told one night this week. I want to. I don't like to backlead. It takes the fun out of it, really, and removes a bit of the beauty and quite a bit of the magic. This week, when I did let go and trust, relaxing into the love of my Father, I was so truly blessed beyond my hopes and prayers. One would think that would be incentive enough to make leaning into that Love a habit, but fear and nerves prevail. Again. And I find myself dependent on me more than I intend.

The good thing is, I can feel that the dependence is ever so slightly less. I'm beginning, slowly, to see and feel a difference. In the meantime, I seem to wear my level of surrender in my dancing shoes, giving a barometer of my progress to my partner. Fortunately, he, too, is patient and kind.

after the fact

For twelve years, I wrote somewhere - in a journal or a note on Facebook or here - about 9/11, on 9/11. This year I did not. Not for any reason other than I didn't. I spent the day at work, doing what I (try to) do. I had a falling apart layer in the day that was painful, but necessary for some "stuff" I am working through, but even that had nothing to do with not writing.

Yesterday, a friend handed me a children's book. "Read this," she said. September 12: We knew everything would be all right. "Your everything will be all right," she told me as she hugged me. The book was written and illustrated by first grade students in Missouri, and was first printed in July 2002. It's adorable, but the book itself is not the point.

Before that day thirteen years ago, I had seen God at work in many ways, in many places, and I had thanked Him. From time to time I asked Him for stuff. Before that day, I had apprehension that kept me from being completely whole, and I knew it, but it was (in my mind) no big deal, just shyness or something like it. Before that day, I had never learned to lean on God, to ask for Him to be my strength, for Him to hold me, for Him to guide me.

On that day, once my family was all home, safe and under one roof, sleeping in their own beds, the bottom fell out of my heart. I dreamt each night of police coming to the door in the middle of the night for various reasons, alarms sounding in the distance warning of some threat, lights flashing outside my window. The fear that enveloped me was so intense, so complete, I had difficulty functioning. I found myself staring at the sky, not having realized how accustomed to the flight patterns over my house I had become. Although the quiet was something I would normally have relished, the empty skies became a roaring silence in my ears. I cried and trembled every morning when I awoke, tearing myself from my pillow only because our youngest son slept in a crib and could not get out himself.

I can't tell you how long this went on. I do know that the day it began to change was laundry day, and a beautiful, sunny and warm one at that. I was on the phone with my friend, Aunt B, one of the few people I'd told of my pain, my sorrow, my fear. She told me she had been repeating constantly the words "Thy will be done." She encouraged me to pray - something that had truly not occurred to me. I went outside with my basket of clean clothes and screamed it at the sky. Every time I went outside, I said it - softly under my breath, in my head, screamed at the top of my lungs, silently in my heart - until I could bring myself to say it upon waking.

Fitful sleep, terrible dreams, time to rise, "Thy will be done," tears and fear. Repeat.

Until the morning I woke, once again with tears on my cheeks, and heard the voice of God. A song I knew well rang in my ears and I felt the presence of one who meant the words completely: Be not afraid. I go before you always. Come, follow me, and I will give you rest. (from Isaiah) For the first time since that fateful Tuesday, I felt comfort, peace, gratitude for the dawn of day. And the strength to move forward, to take each day, each step, each challenge as it came. The dreams stopped. The sun felt warm, the rain refreshed, the cries of the baby filled me with love for life and a desire to be.

I knew everything would be all right. Not perfect in my eyes, not what I might like or want or wish for, but right. I learned to seek with all my heart. A lesson I still struggle with, but that's another story for another time.

Jeremiah 29, especially v13 & 14.

dig and scrape

I've been scrabbling lately. Not the kind with words and letter tiles and laughter with friends and family, either. The kind with tears and ragged fingernails and wishes for a solid reason to call in quite sick. For a year or so.

What's wrong, you ask? That's hard to say. A lifetime of wishing, hoping and dreaming in a head on collision with reality, I suppose. Add in a healthy amount of fear in letting it all go - or play out - and, well, you get something close to what's swirling around inside. There's also a fair amount of inner healing that's been going on (which means digging deep and learning to recognize the me that's really me behind the me I think I want everyone else to see, but not really know because it's all way too complicated). Top it off with my go to person being unavailable, or mostly so, and the mess is a little closer to what we're talking about.

So tonight a friend took matters into her own hands. Quite literally, as she dragged me (admittedly fairly willingly) over to see a visiting priest. In a five minute conversation, my perspective was changed. Energy cannot be created, only changed; redirected. "The same is true of spiritual energy," he said. How to change the negative (which can only recharge negative) to a more positive question? The question to pray is still "Why is this so?" But the 'this' is changed, transformed to an energy I want and need in my life - one that is more Christ-like. From frustration to patience. From anger to compassion.

Interestingly, the subtle change in direction has the effect of clarifying ever so slightly some other concepts I've been working on in therapy. And the key falls somewhere in my perceived feeling of judgement, of expectations and of preconceptions. For the first time, I can see the possibility of achieving the endgame. I still have fear and apprehension, but I also have great hope and faith.

a double three

I missed posting yesterday, although I did not miss knowing what to say. I went through my list before sleep last night, knowing I would get to it today. Here's yesterday:

#1 That nifty effect our brainwaves have when we "connect" with someone. It's an actual thing, and it means so much to know that when there's that click, there's also increased creativity and positivity. I just wish I could remember the name.....

#2 Those people in my life that feel like they've been part of it forever. The ones I can talk with for hours, or sit in silence and not feel the least bit awkward.

#3 Laughter at work. Something that is currently kinda related to the previous two. Some days there's more, and some days there's none, but I really think there is ssomething terrific about being able to have genuine and spontaneous laughter while working. You can feel free to call me crazy.

And then there's today:
#1 Daily Mass. I wasn't going to go today, but I did and was very grateful for the message. And all the rest that comes with going to Mass. I walked in knowing I needed some centering, and walked out with a fresh outlook.

#2 The friends who encourage me to go to daily Mass! They employ different methods - and some of them may not even know they have that influence, but they do. I love each of them in a very special way.

#3 Classes to take! I registered for two classes today. I love learning, stretching, growing. I've missed being a student.

the third three

#1 Our home. It's often a mess, and there are repairs to be made and redecorating/remodelling dreams scattered all over the place, but it's cozy and homey and ours.

#2 Our church. I feel as at home there as I do sitting on my balcony, whether I'm there for worship, for fellowship, to volunteer, or at work, I feel as right as rain. I've been asked a number of times, "Don't you ever get tired of driving there?" I don't. Does one ever get tired of going home?

#3 The seasons. Tonight as I sit on the balcony, it's much darker, feels much later than the same time a month ago. The night sounds are different, too, and I know that before long we'll have to put the funiture back in the shed and move inside again. But that doesn't matter tonight. Noticing the splendor of the little changes is an opportunity to give thanks for the experience of the day.

I am so very blessed!

second three things

On day two, my thankfulness is different. But each day's gratitude must be related to my particular story, and my particular blessings.

#1 My brokenness. It hurts more some days than others (like today), but without it I would not have a chance at seeing my growth or progress. It's slow (to me) but steady, and occasionally I can see glimpses of the mosaic in the works. This one is also interesting to me because of the readings and the homily at Mass this morning. Everything is related, and without pain or sorrow or other unpleasantness, the true joy, the miracles, the wholeness are not as clear or obvious. Not as full. 

#2 Pray-ers. Mosaics require a considerable amount of sticky, messy, goopy stuff to make them hold together. When I can't mix it all in myself, I have friends I can ask to help me out. That's new to me, and I don't always remember to, but they are there for me -- and I for them.

#3 Pinterest. Yeah, I know; it doesn't exactly fit with the others, but today it was particularly helpful! I had a whole bunch of zucchini to do fun things with, but not so many ideas for what fun yumminess to do. (The reason is related to #1 above. Everything is related!) I made really delicious muffins, thanks to Pinterest, and found another I will use tomorrow, as well as a cucumber recipe to try. A win!

Even on a bad day, I remembered to look for the positives. That's a bit of growth in itself! In fact, in the middle of an internal stuggle that had me crying out to God while standing in the middle of my kitchen, I realized that I was, indeed, thankful for the struggle, as it gave me a chance to find in myself the tools I've learned I have and give them a try. It's a little crazy, but in the best way.

first three things

Normally, I don't "do" challenge things that are on social media. For whatever reason, they make me feel kind of like I'm getting chain mail, which I was warned about hundreds of times in elementary school. (Not only is it illegal, it's unsavory; the work of evil minds.) This, however, is different. This is actually an exercise I've been working on--and often putting off or "forgetting"--and is worth the thinking time. The same friend who 'suggested' me for it also recently tagged me in a photo posting exercise which I have not yet done, but have been mulling over. So, here goes. Day One of Three Things For Which I Am Thankful.

#1 My faith. God loves me. I love God. Those simple truths make all the difference. God lets me be me, flaws and all, and brings me back in for a hug when I mess things up--even if I meant to. I talk to Him every day, and do my best to listen. Even when I don't understand what or why or how, I have faith that His plan is for the long-term--and is in His time. Today I have some hurt I'm helping friends bear. Faith makes that both easier and harder.

#2 My husband. It's been a crazy ride, some of which I would rather not repeat, but none of which I would trade or give up. He makes me laugh, he lets me cry, he disagrees with me, and he supports me. He is real, and he allows and encourages me to be real, too. Since the day we married, we have been family, and I cannot imagine--or remember!--any other way.

#3 Words. There is such delight in finding the words to express oneself. Today I read words that brought me joy, and words that cut me to the quick. In between, words raced and bounced through my mind, across my heart. around my being, and found themselves in songs I heard, conversations I took part in, and prayers that rose from my heart to the heavens.

These three are intertwined, as are all the 'parts' of my life. I cannot fathom the strength of any without the others today.

question: part two

The third thing that raced through my mind was another related question: If I were to meet me today, would I pursue a friendship? That's more complicated. First, just who would I likely be meeting? The public me that I know so well and guard in order to be liked? Or the private, internal me that I know so well and guard in order to be safe?
I just finished a CrossCurrent series - and spent the time breaking through another thin layer of that guardedness. But the layers are often very thin, indeed, and I find sometimes even more barriers than I thought I started with. Trouble is, that public me I mentioned is way more false than I like to admit. (Because I'm human - admit it, you don't like to face the false either.)
The real me, the true me is there to the observant. There are people who see it (her?) right away and can be as real with me as I long to be. Others manage somehow to draw me out, and I find joy with them as our friendship grows and blossoms. When I consider whether I would befriend myself, these are the people I think of. Do I have something inside that they have? Would I put in the time and energy they seem to have in abundance?
Or would I bother? I'm not the easiest person to get close to. Not only do I realize that, but I kind of make it that way on purpose. I'm working on learning just why that is. But at the same time, I look to the people closest to my heart and wonder how they arrived there. Each is there for a reason, I know, and each means more to me than I can ever explain. Some of them know the real, true me better than I do, and are patient and loving enough to not tell me so. I admire and thank them for that. And I look to them all for my own response.
If you met yourself today, would you take steps to be your friend?

a question asked

Not long ago, a question was posed to me that caused me to stop and rethink where I was headed.
"If you were to meet [this person] today, say at work or at a social event, would you want him or her to be your friend? Would you spend any more time or energy than you had to in getting to know him or her?"
So many thoughts sped through my mind in a split second, most of which included those people with whom I had forged relationships - sometimes having to work hard at it, and other times with more ease than I understood. The immediate response was a very relieved no. The next series of thoughts had to do with my own use of the same concept in, actually, a similar context. I, however, had placed it in a different direction: "If I didn't have to have a relationship with this person, I might otherwise have never met him or her. I'd have no reason to have them in my circle." This new question took the pressure off.
Bonds of blood are important, but equally important are bonds of love, bonds of the heart. Call it what you will - framily, family of the heart, besties, communion of saints - regardless, though blood may be thicker than water, water is pretty darn essential. My husband and I share no bond of blood, and yet our relationship is more important than any other on earth. And I would still want to get to know him if I met him today for the first time.
There is a mutual aspect. Just because I find someone interesting does not guarantee the same curiosity will be reciprocated, and vice versa. On occasion,  that has been a hard pill to swallow. Tolerating another's attempts can be as uncomfortable as the realization that I am being tolerated.
For now I'll say that the question is open-ended, and at times the answer varies based on numerous factors. There's freedom in the asking. In knowing there is even a question. An option - one among many.

write, read, feel

On my shelf, on my floor, in my bag for work, I have an abundance of notebooks (including this electronic version). I'd love to say a "plethora," simply because it's a fun word, but abundance suffices. Each notebook has its own purpose, so I haven't filled one before starting another. In fact, I don't think any of them are full, per se. I would say that in the mix are notebooks I am finished with.
One bittersweet pile is filled with barre exercises, center floor combinations, tap rhythms and music selections. I happen upon them now and then, stashed in odd spots and bags around the house. They bring back memories of days spent near the CD player in the kitchen, testing, repeating and experimenting with how to move and create, imagining the spacial aspect. I flip through them when they turn up and see a side of myself that I really liked, that I miss sometimes, but that I'm also happy to be free of. Free from. But....
Others are the books that I read. I never marked a single book that wasn't a college text book until fairly recently. And now I'm a bit addicted. Ever since Thomas Merton found his way onto my reading list, I've had to avoid the library like the plague. I use highlighters, flags and pens in my books, marking passages, writing references to other books I've read, and even to movies, music, current events. I love the interaction with the words on the page, and the imagined conversations I'm having with the authors and with my friends reading the same books. Some I feel comfortable sharing, and others I keep to myself, but they, too, tell a story of who I am in a moment in time. This moment.
I have notebooks that are journals. When I was in junior high and high school, Dad used to give me diaries as gifts. With or without little locks, his intention was that I would write down my feelings, my perceptions, my highs and lows. I never really did. These days, journaling as I do, I realize that the thing is, I had very few feelings to write down. Very few highs and lows. I felt a lot of nothing that felt like something. Which is pretty much what I journal about now. Today, in the past couple of years, I've begun to feel, to identify my feelings, to grasp their relevance in my life, and in the lives of those around me. These journals also have specific purposes; trains of thought and threads of me that trace my journey. The lines between them get fuzzier the more I write in them; the deeper I go.
I also write in my devotional book, but not every day. Sometimes I need to write to make the prayer "work," but other days I just talk or listen. These notes range from short messages - just a word or two - to sections where I have completely obliterated the printed passage. I wonder on occasion what my spiritual advisor would see if he were to read it. Then I realize how silly that thought is. They are my prayers, my thoughts, my conversations with God. They can ramble as much as they need to.
There are times when, as I write, I chuckle at the thought of someone trying to put it all in order. I currently have - counting this blog and my daily devotional - 6 active journals. I date each entry and sometimes wonder what on earth is wrong with me. In all honesty, I'm working on breaking down the walls in my mind and heart. It's slow going, and will take many more notebooks, I think.
But I'm on my way.

fare thee well

He hugged me, saying "thank you for letting me go. Even though I know you don't want me to." I do, though. I want him to go and see where this dreams lead him. I will miss him -- I do already -- but that doesn't mean I want him to stay. To be tied to me, to this edition of home, to my life and dreams (and, let's face it: issues). 

Our goal has always been for our boys to grow into fine young men. (A refrain that has at times made them crazy when it meant that the answer was no, that they were grounded, their wings clipped in any way.) as I've watched him this summer, anticipating this morning's departure, I've been so inspired by the man he is becoming. Having always felt blessed by his presence in my life, I can honestly say that he has enabled helped me to grow, in many ways. I've learned from him just about every day since he was born. 

Almost a year ago, I was speaking with some parents at church and mentioned that in working with the high school kids, we would be teaching them, yes, but we'd also be learning with and from them. One of the fathers found that to be wholly unsatisfactory. He told me there was nothing we should be learning from them; they are just kids. I politely and quietly disagreed with him, and we've never seen his kids on Sunday nights. I'm saddened every time I think of that interaction. Am I not just a child myself, with so much to learn? 

My son, my child, my baby boy, please go with my love and blessing! Continue to grow, to learn, to teach, and to be. Be yourself -- the you that God intends you to be. Remember what we've taught you. Remember you have a home with us always. Remember that with The Lord beside you, you are never, ever alone. Follow your dream. Give glory. Learn much -- especially about yourself. You are always in my heart. 

off the fence

Today was an especially nice one. Not particularly extraordinary, but special. Likely because it was somewhat ordinary. And yet....

I slept poorly last night, and forced myself out of bed after the snooze wondering if I'd be able to function. Before Mass, I asked for company today: guidance, support, friendship in my work, in my words, in my interactions. "Lord, be with me."

Leaving the parking lot after my evening meeting, reviewing in my mind what we had covered, I started to say "Thank you," and began to cry. The entire day unrolled, a highlight reel of beautiful moments. Each one related in some way to the next, and also to my morning prayer. Overwhelmed with gratitude, I turned off the radio and offered thanks.

Not long ago, I had a really terrible, horrible, no good day (as the story goes), and could not find the blessing in the day. Not a single thing for which to be thankful. I also knew I would not get to sleep that night until I found something - anything! - to thank God for. Eventually I did, though right now I can't remember the good or the bad of that day. But tonight I found myself thanking God, too, for that day, because since then I've been more aware, more attuned to the blessings, big or small, that color my days.

So in the car, I cried, grateful for a Friend to walk with me each and every day.

reverie

As I watched the bride dance with her father, and the groom with his mother, I was transported. In my heart, I felt my own father's arms around me, while in my imagination I saw my sons dancing with me.

My own wedding was nearly half my life ago. At times I cannot remember not being married to the man with whom I've shared so much. Other times I wonder how it could be so short a time. So much has happened; so much has changed. Never again will I dance in my father's arms. It strikes me at odd times, but tonight the feeling of melancholy was tempered by the imagination.

In a blink, a breath, and two heartbeats, any of our sons could be getting married. At least it will seem like that short a time, if and when.

It was a beautiful combination of feelings to have at a beautiful wedding reception. Blessings and love to the bride and groom!

with me, always

This morning, as I drove to work (where thoughts waft and blow on the wind through the sunroof and the windows), I got to thinking about hugs. My husband is out of town, and I missed our morning hug that sometimes amounts to just a quick arm across shoulders, but still stamps the day official. That shoulder thought made me remember that a friend whose shoulder I can always count on is also out of town. Just as I was about to make what usually looks the next logical connection--that I would just have to wait for those particular interactions for a few days and deal with that particular loneliness--I remembered.

I am never alone.

Never. I smiled and said, "I was quick today! I know you are here for me. Thank you, Lord, for being my friend." The lonely feeling eased, my heart rate actually slowed a bit, and I felt the warmth of my heart opening. Where I had been missing a physical hug and an emotional shoulder, I began to feel a hug in my soul.

A really nice way to start the day.

obstacle or bridge

The image memory is kinetic. I can feel each muscle as I strain against the arm around my waist, screaming and shaking my head so hard I can feel my brain. Punching my fists at someone, and feeling the soft tissue give under the blows. I try to kick, but need my feet under me for balance, for stability.
It's been a long time since I've seen this scene play out in my mind's eye. In fact, every time a teacher in oh, probably junior high, said the words "mind's eye," this is what I saw first. It's pretty dark, and the space is smallish, but I want OUT!
It used to be, when I felt this memory - and I only call it that because it's always been so vivid - or dream, I forced it away, fearful that it was how I would behave if I wasn't careful. That it was some primal, perhaps evil, instinct that could derail all of my dreams, my life. I'd see this on days when I was at the end of my rope: tired, stressed, lonely, isolated. Essentially, when I let my guard down.
Today, after enough time that I had forgotten, but not enough time to not remember, I again felt the intense feeling that I actually was there, in the vision. And I was struck by my reaction. First, I wondered if it was just me - the real, true me - wanting to come out; to break the mold of my false self (the one that's trying to please and impress). I wondered why I wouldn't let myself out. Second, I wondered if it was not a dreamed or imagined image, but an actual memory of an actual event. Only then did I remember the other feelings that had always been part of the package.
Tonight, I'd let my guard down. I was at the Adoration chapel, trying to be patient, to wait, to feel and hear. I wrote for a while, words that flowed freely to God today, but had been getting stuck lately, leaving me frustrated, and my soul tense. I went back and read some journal entries from a few months ago, and found some of myself I'd been ignoring again. I sat and waited. "Father, love me." Each time I say it, my heart opens just a little more, my eyes get more and more wet.
It's an interesting thing that happens when I allow my heart to open. I actually feel like the spaces between my ribs are widening. Usually at the point that I feel that, I get scared. I stop allowing for the presence I'm hoping for. Not tonight. And what I saw was not what I expected. Another turn in the path. An obstacle to overcome, or a bridge to cross?

perhaps one day

I have a pain in my shoulder. I call it my shoulder, but if I were to point to it, you might say it's in my back. I know it's my shoulder because when I lift my arm one way, there is a clicking feeling in my shoulder, and if I lift it another way, the pain is less. We're not talking super evident pain: if you didn't watch me or know me, you might not notice, because I rarely mention it. For the most part, it doesn't bother me; I can still do things I need to do. On occasion, it interrupts my sleep or makes me feel especially tired. I know of something I can do to alleviate the pain, but it requires a partner, and sometimes the need to explain to someone is just not worth the energy to me. I can live with it, so I do. Every once in a while I do wonder why it hurts in the first place, since it comes and goes with no rhyme or reason, no obvious causes. When I do mention it, I get the usual questions: What happened? Did you do something to it? Have you been or do you need to see a doctor/chiropractor? How long has it been like that? Perhaps one day I'll find out what it is that makes the same spot hurt again and again. 

I have a pain in my heart. I call it my heart, because it's easier to explain that way, but in reality, I feel like it's a pain in my soul, because sometimes it affects my ability to pray, to give, to receive. And where it hurts is not a physical place, but a place I can feel, nonetheless. Sometimes this pain makes it impossible or difficult to eat, to sleep, to get out of bed. Other times, it is almost impossible to notice. But it's always there. For the most part, it doesn't bother me; I can still do things I need to do. I know some things I can do to alleviate the pain, and I am in the process. When I mention it, I get a variety of questions: What makes you think that's okay? Do you really think praying/therapy/talking/sharing can help? Can't you just get over it and move on? 

Both sources of pain have forced me to take a good look at who I surround myself with. I'm learning what a safe place is. I'm learning that I don't have to rely on myself. I'm learning that the important thing is how I will get through, moving forward; how I will use what I learn. I am blessed with spirited and strong children who challenge me, a loving and generous husband, and friends I can easily call family, as well as family members who have shared experiences, and are willing to listen. Most of all, I am blessed with a desire to pray and open my heart, even when it hurts, when it feels like it's crumbling, cracking, and falling apart. I look forward to the day I can step back from the mosaic that is my heart pieced together and see the beauty as others see it. Right now I'm too close to see anything but the details, and the work is too new to truly appreciate progress. 

cool little story

Yesterday, I shared a cool little story with a new friend, and he said, "Sometimes the answer is right there in plain sight. We just miss it." Or forget to look. My story in a nutshell: I was having trouble with a meditation on the Centurion whose servant was healed. I wrote about my difficulty in the devotional book, and my son came and read a passage from his book--mostly unrelated. The next night, he told me about leafing through his bible and coming across a story he found interesting....the story of a Centurion whose servant was healed. He proceeded to tell me about the footnotes and references that explained--very neatly--just what it was I'd been having trouble with. I thanked him for sharing, and told him about my frustration the night before. Then I thanked God for the wink.

This morning, driving to church, I remembered that I had not read the daily readings in a couple of weeks, and had missed at least a day in my devotional, and wondered (yet again!) why it is so hard to develop and keep good habits, when bad habits--even new ones--seem to develop on their own. The next thought I had was that the answer is right there in plain sight. That's when I realized what I was missing. The answer really was right there.

God gave us free will. We tell the kids that all the time. We talk about it. We know it. I know it. And that is the answer to my question. I fall easily into bad habits because I simply don't make a choice. Here's the thing: when I choose, or decide, to make a change for the good--to pray with my devotional, for example--each day I need to further make the choice to follow through with the decision. Each and every day. Why? Because I have free will. When I don't decide, when I let my guard down, or just wait too long to say, "now it's time to read this and pray," there is a golden opportunity for someone else to make an offer. It's far simpler and easier for me to just sit and do nothing at all, or to play on my phone, or even to do the dishes just because they are sitting there, than it is to determine that it is now time to pray--or exercise, or whatever else it is that would be the good habit to form.

I've recognized this before. I blogged once about reading some advice regarding the decision to be married each day. The fact that I am a married woman is not changeable, but how I feel about that--on days when one or both of us is stressed or grumpy, sick, or whatever--is something I can decide to work with or against. I can't necessarily change how the daily situation makes me feel, but I can determine how, or if, or when, I will deal with it. Making that decision purposefully has been a game changer for me. Why I did not apply it to other aspects of my life is one of the mysteries I am still working on solving.

My life is a prayer, and I am working toward seeing it that way each day, not just when I remember to think about it.

light is darkness

And if your light is darkness, how deep will be the darkness! (Matthew 6:15)

This is the second translation of this verse I read this evening. I read the first three times without being able to begin to understand it. I decided to try reading the next verse to see if it made more sense, and in my Bible, this was the translation. Sitting in the gathering gloaming, I found it fitting to think of light and darkness. And just what this particular verse means -- to me, today.

Near as I can tell, light and darkness are at times relative. For a few months, I've been trying to determine which spirit is talking to me: the spirit of Light, or the spirit of darkness. There are questions to ask, and faith to go on, but in the end, it is still hard for me to determine which is which. Not always, but often enough.

Tonight I feel particularly battered. And for no reason related to today, or even this week. I think, really, it's a level of recovery marked by deep pain. Earlier this evening, trying to define it, all I could come up with is that feeling of knowing that used to belong to the days leading up to a breakup with my high school boyfriend. We dated for just about five years, and broke up about every six months or so. There was an awful lot to that time, and I wouldn't go back to relive it all over again, but there is something to be said for revisiting the why of at least some of it.

And if your light is darkness, how deep will be the darkness!

Wondering why I got that feeling earlier is a key to a door that I previously never knew existed. I need to determine whether it should be opened, or simply passed by. My light is darkness. At least some of it. Things that I have always believed about myself are not all true. Some are not at all true. Some are indeed true, but only in certain circumstances. Some are completely true, but not necessarily great to acknowledge. But mostly, I would say that I have a good amount of darkness where a measure of light belongs. If I continue to believe in that darkness as my light, the truth of me, then I will, first of all, continue to find myself in dark places that frighten me, and consume me. The darkness -- the actual darkness -- truly is deeper, darker.

Good decisions are not always easy, and do not always look like the ones that others would choose. And all too often, judgments are made that only reinforce the dark. Every decision comes with a cost, and even the cost is not necessarily what one would think. Earlier this week, I found myself saying, "It's not worth it to say something," and was met with the response, "It's always worth it to say something." I've been thinking about that. One of my favorite songs is John Mayer's Say. "Say what you need to say....Fighting with the shadows in your head....Knowing you'd be better off instead if you could only....Say what you need to say.....It's better to say too much than never to say what you need to say." When I hear it, I know that each verse is truth. And yet, I usually find myself closer to Billy Joel's words in And So It Goes: "And still I feel I've said too much, My silence is my self defense." My darkness, my light, has for too long come with silence.

And if your light is darkness, how deep will be the darkness!

The two songs come together on one stanza from each song: "But if my silence made you leave, Then that would be my worst mistake," (Joel) "Have no fear for giving in, Have no fear for giving over.....Even if your hands are shaking, And your faith is broken....Do it with a heart wide open" (Mayer). Opening a heart, my heart, requires a key. Rather, it will require many keys, none of which seem to be hanging neatly by the door, readily accessible. I am fighting with the shadows in my head, and have been for a very long time. Trouble is, I had no idea for so long, because my light has been darkness. Hope is my light; dim at times, but constant.

And that's where I am today.

three minutes

Opening my notebook tonight, planning to jot some things down for book club (Mere Christianity, by CS Lewis), I came across some other words I'd worked on a while ago. I remembered at the time being frustrated and disappointed with them, but could not recall whether I had ever shared them. At a meeting, an 'assignment' was given to write up a 3-minute version of our own faith story. I know I never delivered it at the next meeting, but thought I might have posted it. Poking around my blog posts to see, I learned quite a bit about myself. Earlier this evening, I had asked for some clarity in pinpointing a question or two I need to ask. The posts helped a bit.

Anyway, the words. The request was for three minutes on my faith journey, a conversion story. I found a post about my frustration with it (the elusive three). Here is what I finished with. (You could say, where I gave up.) Today, I find it to be spot on in describing where I'd been!

At one time, I thought faith was something we "got," probably at birth. Either we had it or we didn't. And if that was the case, I was very blessed, inheriting faithful attitudes from my parents and grandparents, and attending Catholic school for 8 years.

In reality, I was a faith trust fund brat, never learning about or internalizing what I was exposed to. Never learning how things worked--mostly because I was afraid asking questions would make me sound dumb. I squandered my faith by petitioning all the time, thanking occasionally, and rarely making any real effort.

One day, in the middle of a personal crisis, I realized I was down to my last faith dollar--and I really needed help. I took that last dollar, and told God I was giving it to him. I had nothing to lose. Thy will be done. His will. And I breathed and I laughed, and he told me to keep the dollar and invest it.

I prayed; for the first time I really prayed. I spoke, I listened. I laughed, and I began to ask questions; to look for answers. I started to get personal with God, to think of Jesus as a friend, to remember that the Holy Spirit was in me.

It's not always easy. I'm not always the most attentive friend.* But every day I start fresh, looking toward God, knowing that Jesus is the best kind of friend: the kind that is always looking out for me, always ready to listen, always offering a hand to guide me. Prayer and learning are my best investments in faith. I still have tons of questions, and some of them have answers someone else can give me. Quite a few, the ones that offer the most in return, are the ones that require deeper searching--in my heart, walking with the Lord. And I've never felt so rich.

*I forget. I get stuck. I get scared.

reaching out

We all need reminders from time to time. Lists for the grocery store, courtesy calls from the doctor's office, alarms set on our phones or email. Sometimes they come in comments made by our children about our own expectations, making us remember what it was like to be their age, needing attention, love, correction, love, guidance, or love. Other times the reminders come in scents or sounds, the feeling of the wind or the sun on your shoulders, or a song. Some reminders are expected, and some come as a surprise. And some come as answers to prayers unsaid.

I've had a particularly stressful time lately. Activities that have brought me peace, have brought frustration. Relationships that should be comforting have been painful. There has been a battle raging in my heart and in my mind, and around me, over my head, invisible to me, but quite nearby.

Last night, I didn't want anything to do with any of it. I didn't want to pray or talk or be anywhere. I wanted to cry, to scream, to play loud music and drive, drive, drive. But I was already tired from a week of late nights, a slight frustration on my own part escalated unnecessarily to anger, hurt and general angst deep in my heart. I sat outside, alone, in the dark, and realized I wanted nothing more than to turn into myself; to tighten my protective shields and hide from the world, my painful memories, and everything I know. So I reached.

Almost immediately, I felt more peace. It was only a text I sent, but in sending it, I admitted to myself that I do need others. I need community--especially when I'm hurting. I told God I did not want to talk to Him; that I did not want to listen. That I just wanted to be. Shortly thereafter, a dear friend showed up in my driveway. We talked and cried some; we hugged a lot. Another dear friend prayed from half a country away. Once again, I was humbled by the comfort of being among others.

This morning, I found flowers in my driveway: a comfort and a reminder. Later, something wonderful happened. God winked at me. A friend I haven't seen in a while, who I had been trying to connect with over the winter, with so many obstacles getting in the way, pulled me aside in a crowded room. Our little talk was made up of very few words, but enough for God to remind me that He is always with me. That each of the people in my life is there for a reason. A reminder that I am--always--His daughter. Even when I want to be alone inside myself.

Thank you all for being in my life, in small ways and in big ways. I am blessed to have this particular community as my help, my net, my family of the heart.

shedding tears

When I sit down to pray, I cry. I sob, actually. I don't quite know why, but it seems to replace the words that used to come when I would sit to pray.
While it cleanses my heart, I seem to feel my head filling with something else. Something thick and heavy. A velvet curtain of some kind, with large sandbags in the fly. Although it may be for protection, I don't feel entirely protected. Leastwise, inside my head.
My heart feels free.
It's disconcerting, this crying. I don't expect it. Don't feel triggered in the least. It just comes. And goes as quickly and unexpectedly. There was I time when I would wonder about my sanity, but there is utter and pure comfort in these tears. I don't understand it, but I feel it. And I won't stop.

a daughter

A few weeks ago, I read a quote from Friedrich Nietzsche that I disagreed with:
"All truly great thoughts are conceived while walking."


The moment I read it, I wondered if the man had ever showered. That's where I do some of my best and clearest thinking. I was reminded of this mental transaction as I thought, and cried, in the shower today.


Lately I've been experiencing some deep inner conflict. In some ways it is very familiar, and in others, just plain strange. I don't know how best to deal with it, except by experiencing it--none of the methods I had used for much of my life have managed to eliminate these particular pangs, so I'm trying a different tactic: letting go. This means something different to me now. I grew up being told that 'letting go' means forgetting and never thinking about that thing, that feeling, that hurt ever again. The reason that has never worked for me is that it's incomplete.


My tearful thoughts this morning had to do with steps forward; with positive changes in my life. This deep inner conflict has coincided with the confirmation of a new job, a new direction, a dream coming true, to a certain extent. As a kid (and by that I mean at any point in my life before having to start helping my own kids with conflict, I think), I began to see good change as something to be wary of. With good change came discord, conflict, internal or physical pain unrelated to anything really happening to me. Sometimes it was small, and sometimes it was big, but in the end, what I learned was that good stuff comes at a price, and it was up to me to determine whether the unknown price was going to be worth it. It was like agreeing to sign a contract without first knowing the terms.


This morning I recognized what I had thought of as some kind of balance to be, in actuality, something trying to keep me from finding comfort. In Mere Christianity, C.S. Lewis says, "In religion, as in war and everything else, comfort is the one thing you cannot get by looking for it. If you look for truth, you may find comfort in the end: if you look for comfort you will not get either comfort or truth--only soft soap and wishful thinking to being with and, in the end, despair." (HarperOne, p.41) Turns out, this explains more of my inner turmoil than the turmoil ever can itself. I was looking for comfort (goodness, happiness, joy) in what I was doing, rather than in the doing itself. As a result, I was putting my trust in the wrong place.


A few weeks ago, I also had a conversation with my son about plans. We had stopped at Habitat for Humanity's local ReStore, and on the way home, I told him when I was his age, I had wanted to work for Habitat, or MakeAWish, or the Peace Corps. Unfortunately, I didn't know who to talk to to find out about these options as career choices. I only knew them as places to volunteer temporarily, whether regularly or intermittently. Years later, taking my management courses, I told my brother and my husband that I really felt like non-profit work was a far better fit for me than anything else. And now, as I look forward to beginning a job at our church, I find myself facing the same inner demons I tried to fight off at those times.


Eerily the same.


When I realized it this morning, I also realized the difference now in my life. Until recently, I have worked hard at living my life for me. Growing up, I was told I could grow up to be whatever I wanted to be; I could do whatever I set out to do. That I had potential in any direction I chose. But then I found roadblocks to every dream I ever wanted to make come true. I was being selfish, making my destiny, my purpose, my own instead of part of something bigger. That's why I lost the fight. Every time. I was trying to do it all myself, the way I had been taught.


This time, I'm reacting to a question that came from outside of me. I said yes to a question, a request, a call, that I didn't hear as much as I felt. I was drawn to the place I'm going, without knowing the whys and hows of my reason for being there. I'm going to a job for which I was chosen, rather than one that I would have chosen myself. About the new chapter I am curious and excited and joyful. And yet I have this pain that keeps pushing out in weird directions, making me question even my sanity at times. The difference? I'm not going to fight this demon alone. I've identified the need for others to be there, in my heart. I've started the process (difficult, uncomfortable and unfamiliar though it is) of letting them in, of cracking open the shell I've created around my heart.


I was never meant to be whatever I wanted to be when I grew up. I was meant to be what God wanted me to be. And that's what I'm working on.

more than many

Normally, flying over the world from one city to another at 33,000 feet, I look out the window and see just the tops of clouds. It was surprising today to look out and see roads and trees, houses and fields.
I began to talk to God.
This is what I imagined you see, Lord, when you look at us from Heaven. Just the vague yet beautiful expanse of world below. And that there was so much in that vision that was very far away.
And that's precisely why I thought I could hide--from you, as well as your love, your wrath, your comfort, your fury.
I had this idea that you only zoomed in on those who needed you. Distress and disorder calls, in my mind, flashed like beacons, and you would swoop down to rescue or reprimand. Avoiding being part of those signals, except in dire emergency, was my goal. Despite the addage, I believed that no attention was better than any attention at all.
Slowly, gently, over a very long time and a very long road, you have shown me just hoe wrong I was. About all of it.
I cannot--nor do I want to--hide from you. You see me where I am--in the eyes of each and every person I meet, I can find you. At times, I fall short, and see the hurt softened by mercy in your eyes at words or deeds better left unsaid, undone, considered, delayed. Other times, in my own pain, I find your compassion, your love, your hope for me in the eyes of another.
Where I most fell short was in daring to look into those eyes deep enough to see your heart within. You already know the reason: I dared not open my own.
Dear Lord, I thank you for holding my heart. For knowing each hair on my head. For encouraging me, ever so gently, ever so firmly, to be unafraid. For telling me, again and again, how much I mean to you; that I not only have space and substance, but I have value. (Luke 12:7) Even--and especially--when I was (and am) resistant.
It has taken me time to accept these truths, and just a bit more to embrace them. But the point is, today I am acutely aware that you are not a being that is separate and apart from me. You are my God, and you are with me always.
And I love you.

lighten the load

The gist of my thought for the day:
Often, I have heard people saying that they have 'more baggage' than others. In my view, God gives us what we are intended to handle. He knows, after all, just what He is giving. Whether a change purse or a steamer trunk from another's outside perspective, the weight and density, ultimately, are roughly equivalent because they are personal.




From my reflection today:

The feeding of the five thousand shows the remarkable generosity of God and his great kindness towards us. When God gives, he gives abundantly. He gives more than we need for ourselves so that we may have something to share with others, especially those who lack what they need. God takes the little we have and multiplies is for the good of others. Do you trust in God's provision for you and do you share freely with others, especially those who are in need? (Laudate app for Android, 5/2/14)

My thought as I read:
Would He not also give abundantly of our troubles (our 'blessings in disguise'), so we might share them with others? In this sharing, we help each other: a burden is lightened, and a feeling of being alone is alleviated.






I'm not saying that past hurts, pains, questions or brokenness mean little. Quite the contrary! What I'm saying is that everyone has them. Ev-er-y-one. All of us. We all have baggage, and some of it is visible, and some of it is not. For some, dropping pieces of it here and there is easy--or looks it--and others can't seem to lose it no matter how hard they try.

Each of us has brokenness; each of us as human beings. And no one’s brokenness is more important, bigger, or harder than anyone else’s. Nor is it any less. It’s just simply their own. To think that someone has more reason to be broken than any other is to diminish the other--and one’s own. No one -- anywhere or anytime -- has the ability to judge or rate anyone else’s brokenness, pain, sorrow, woundedness.

Rather, our purpose as family -- God’s family -- is to share in that need that our brothers and sisters have; acknowledging its existence, having a willingness to help bear it, admitting that we, too, need support. None is more broken than another, and no one is too old or too young to be broken or wounded.


Dietrich Bonhoeffer writes:

God loves man. God loves the world. It is not an ideal man that he loves, but man as he is; not an ideal world, but the real world. ... God becomes man, real man. While we are trying to grow out beyond our manhood, to leave the man behind us, God becomes man and we have to recognize that God wishes us men, too, to be real men. ... God makes no distinction at all in his love for the real man. He does not permit us to classify men and the world according to our own standards and to set ourselves up as judges over them. He leads us by himself becoming a real man and a companion of sinners and thereby compelling us to become the judges of God. ... God sides with the real man and with the real world against all their accusers. (Ethics, p. 52-56, edited by Aileen Taylor)

My thought:
God became us, with everything that we are, feel, hope. Maximizing one's own baggage is to lessen the strength and weight of His cross--His ultimate baggage. In the cross, He carried all of our baggage, didn't He? Although my hurts may not have been my fault, how I handle, carry, react, behave may have caused my sin to be added to that weight. If I were to say, "I have more baggage than you," would I be implying that the weight I carry is comparable to, or even more than, the weight of the world; the weight of the cross that saved us? I'm learning to be grateful for what I carry, hard as that may be, because it gives me opportunities--for prayer, for fellowship, for growth, for strength. All in my weakness and inability to carry it all by myself.

Baggage is not a competition. And more: pointing out 'more' versus 'less' would certainly not help anyone who already feels overwhelmed. The unfortunate thing is the diminishing; the implication that someone else's burden is not as important, not as worth sharing. I have a friend who tells her kids "Don't ever let anyone make you feel less than." Comparing baggage piles just makes everyone feel less than. And, honestly, how much of that baggage is filled with garbage? I know most of mine is.

Strike that. All of mine is.

I just choose to carry some of it around with me, despite my best efforts. Not the choice I particularly like to have made, but I continue to work on my own. Not just sifting through it, but also learning to share it with others. Never do I hope to brag about any of the stuff I've got shoved into the depths of my heart. I may hope to compare notes, with the realization of "you, too?!" What's in there, or the combination thereof, is mine and mine alone, just as what you carry belongs to you. I think it's part of my journey to find the people who can help me to pull those broken pieces out, and arrange them on me to build a mosaic. And to help others find the mosaic inside of them.

portions of this post were previously written by me as both email and text messages

Book Talk

Happy are you poor, by Thomas Dubay

Book Club discussion on May 13

What struck me most was the consistent theme that a person in love can think of nothing else; the world fades away and nothing matters. There is great truth in that sentiment! Each day I find myself falling more and more deeply in love with God, with Jesus, with my faith, our faith. And in that love, I find I can more easily accept even that which I do not understand.

 

The next thing that made me think hard about where I am is giving from my need, rather than just from my excess. The author was right in pointing out that giving is easy when it's what I can afford, or am willing to part with. Since coming across this point, I've been more inclined to simply give. And I've been prepared to hand things over, just for the asking. I've also offered food and shelter to strangers. Knowing that it's outside my comfort a bit (personally and monetarily) has been far outweighed by the knowledge that it's the right thing to do. God will provide, in whatever way He sees the need.

 

That brings me to another point I've been pondering. What I perceive to be my needs are not necessarily what I truly need. My faith has deepened with the idea that there is so very little that I need, as opposed to what I have to give. I've taken a huge leap of faith (2 actually) and the fruits are already ripening. Opening my heart to trust in the gifts I've been given, and to use and act upon them came as much from learning about being poor in spirit as from any other book we've read.

 

I also saw many parallels with St. Therese, Thomas Merton, Bonhoeffer, St. Paul, and even Andrew Comiskey's works. Each opening of the heart leading to another. Living faith out loud, rather than quietly and alone. Giving from an emotional and spiritual standpoint, as much as from a monetary (physical) one. I feel more prepared to live as an example to our children, too, although I know there are still some things I am not yet ready to give up or let go of. I'm willing to admit and "own" them, though, and that is progress toward eventually giving all.

 

In the giving, I've also started to ask. There are things that money cannot buy, but that we shouldn't do without--a shoulder to lean on, a heart to connect with, advice. These are things I've always had a hard time asking for in my moments of need, though I give them freely. I love that the concepts in this book, and our last, have given me permission to need those things, and also to say so.

 

there you are

Earlier this week, plagued with vocal chords I had pushed far beyond their limits, I had to spend the day in silence. Or my best attempt at same. Everyone was gone for the day, to work or to school, and I was home alone. Given the fact that the strain of speaking made me a bit lightheaded, it would stand to reason that my own silence would be welcome. It turns out, when I am home alone, I speak aloud to myself more than I realized!

In between the squeaks and honks I emitted, I did manage to consider the day a silent retreat of sorts. I cleaned our spare room, top to bottom, and prayed some, meditating on the blessings of my usual every day.

The past few weeks have not been easy. There are quite a few things weighing on my mind, my heart. I found myself once again wishing for a cup of coffee with my dad. That became a little prayer: "Lord, please, I just want to have a little talk with Dad. I want to know what he'd tell me. I want, more than anything, to feel his hug."

Not ten minutes later, vacuuming under the dresser, I found one of my favorite pictures from our wedding day: me pinning Dad's corsage to his lapel. I hadn't even realized it had fallen down to the floor. I smiled, and silently thanked God and Dad for being in that moment. Later that day, and into the next, I prayed again that Dad might be near me. Last night, after a particularly tough discussion with two friends, I asked that we pray together. When we finished, one of them started singing. "A-amen. A-amen."

I burst into tears.

Dad was there in that moment. She had no idea that he sang that when he finished praying in a group. Every time. She had no idea that I'd been looking for him. I shared with them my grateful heart, and we went home. Late this afternoon, I got a phone call that led to an unexpected conversation that sounded oddly like coffee with Dad. As I hung up, I thanked God for answering such a small prayer. Talking with Dad was never about the answers. He had a way of leaving more questions on the table than answers, and really, that was the best part.

And, as it turns out, was a masterful lesson in faith.

it was good

I went to States today to see Henry swim. He was his usual amazingly athletic self, and the team did great, but the coolest thing was the way it became prayerful for me. Amongst the explanations to the newbies, and the cheering and excitement, I was profoundly touched be the realization that every ounce of what I was feeling was for Henry. Whether he knew it or not; whether he wanted or needed it or not. My love and pride and hopes and prayers were all for his focus. And in the middle of a hot, crowded, noisy natatorium, I heard the voice I'd been looking to hear. 

And it was good.

one of those days

So today was one of those days when I wished I could quit in the middle and try again last week. I spent the entire morning dealing with issue after issue that I either had caused (working too quickly when someone was looking over my shoulder), helped cause, couldn't explain or figure out, or just plain needed to be redone. There was a point at which I stopped and hoped for tears to come. They wouldn't, and I felt sure I was going to catch hell for all of it. So I prayed, and asked for prayers from 3 people. And realized I had just said this morning that I do my best to avoid criticism.

That sometimes means I avoid doing - or being. More than sometimes. 

The prayers helped (tremendously), of course. And ultimately all of the problems I that came across my desk today will eventually be resolved. I came home and sat outside for a while. I also made that phone call I'd been putting off (the response was quite positive), and contemplated the Our Father.

Tuesday was pretty good in the end.

saints and sinners

I read this yesterday in one book, and this morning in another:

The pious fellowship permits no one to be a sinner. So everybody must conceal his sin from himself and from the  fellowship. We dare not be sinners. (Dietrich Bonhoeffer)

The interesting thing to me is the communal nature of confessing presented in both books. Bonhoeffer was Lutheran, but was influenced by experiences he had with the Catholic Church. He believed strongly in the power of confession to reunite us with God. I do, too. That alone does not make it any easier to go to confession.
I've gotten better at it. For a long time, I truly believed it necessary to go to a different priest every time. In all honesty, there was a fear of judgement; a fear that opinions might change. I was afraid that who I was seen as would not match what I might confess.

What I was really afraid of was how I would see myself.

pen and ink

Lately I have been writing quite a bit. On paper. With a pen. There are way more spelling errors that way, but the flow of ink has been especially therapeutic. Trying to think things through, and realizing I probably need some guidance, I have been organizing my thoughts on paper.

It's interesting because I've always thought of my blog as a bit of an online journal; someplace I can record my thoughts and feelings and share them with people who want to know about them. Writing in a notebook is a different experience. Whereas I don't particularly wonder who might read my blog, I do find myself wondering who might open my notebook and start to read. While my blog is left out in the open all the time, my journal is frequently very close to me, or in a dark pocket in my bag, safe.

I'd forgotten how particular one can be about a pen. And how attached to specific ink colors and points one can become. A black, fine tip pen (preferably accountant tip) was my prefered tool in high school and college, along with college-ruled paper. Blue ink seemed more dreamy somehow; less serious. Black ink was sure, confident--something I wanted to appear to be. 'Fake it till you make it!' I still like black ink, and I'd love to find an accountant fine pen that won't rip up the recycled paper that often makes up the little notebooks I like. I've added highlighters to my palette along the way, although I use them more often when I read than when I write.

For Christmas, my husband got me a pack of pens, a pack of highlighters, and a notebook. Somehow he was moved to find these gifts for me, even though  at the time I hardly wrote anything. I typed my thoughts. Ever since, I have found reasons to write down my impressions, to make them flow through my hand from my heart and mind.

And I wonder why. Why does it feel good to  shape the words? I use a mix of cursive and printing--often to distinguish specific thoughts or voices. Sometimes I use cursive for the deeper thoughts, the things that feel a little more secretive or private. When I copy down a verse, line, or quote, I print. Why do I do that? Who is it I think will ever want to crack the code? That's the biggest mystery. I am writing for myself. And I know the code.

At least the code for the words on the page.

What I'm looking for is the code behind the thoughts in my head, the movements of my heart. I tell myself I'm looking for patterns, or answers, or bigger questions, but the fact is, I still don't go back and read what I've written. I have a habit of wanting answers now. That probably would be better facilitated if I did go back and read my own words. I think the problem is that I don't value them.

A friend and I were just talking about that. When I have a problem or concern I want to talk about, I hem and haw about speaking up.  Inevitably, just at the point when I am ready to spill it all, someone else drops what seems to me to be a bigger, tougher, or more important problem. Who would want to hear about what's bothering me then? I'm reading a book on brokenness, and this was touched upon. I'll have to see where it leads. And I'll have to figure out how it fits.