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.