grace and gratitude

There are scones in the oven, a pie waiting to be baked, dishes in the sink, but there is coffee in my mug, and I'm going to savor it. One of the lovely 'perks' of using a French press is that there is no thermal carafe, so I am gently encouraged to slow down a little and appreciate some little things. Like hot coffee, and the memories and dreams that swirl therein.

On this Thanksgiving morning, in these early moments before any of the boys wake, I sit in my newly painted kitchen, delighted that my dearest friends are with their families, as am I. Thanksgiving has long been my favorite holiday. In my mind, it's about simplicity -- favorite foods, favorite people, wine, coffee, conversation, and pie. There is introspection, which (in moderation, I'm finding!), is beneficial to dreaming, planning, goal-setting. [As a matter of fact, Thursday is my favorite day. This past week, for the first time, I put the two together and wondered if there is a relationship between these favorites. I may begin a new experiment and make every Thursday a thanksgiving day....]

Over the past week, I've had a few people make a point of telling me "There is still so much to be thankful for." I agreed with each of them. They are all well meaning and dear, but the truth is, I never needed that reminder. I am thankful. I am even grateful. Nothing in life can take that away from me; certainly not court dates and postponed grocery shopping. On the contrary, these are precisely some of the things that remind me how wonderful my life really is. I am reminded more often how thoughtful my sons are, how understanding; how deep the true friendships are, and how shallow some have shown to be; the bright future (that I admit needing reminders about from time to time) ahead of me, and that the future begins in each moment. I am truly grateful and thankful for each of these things, these people.

In the past few months, I have begun to learn to receive. Interestingly, I had no idea that I hadn't quite grasped that concept. God has prepared me to receive in ways I never would have imagined, and not having asked for this lesson makes it difficult to understand, to process, to accept; and yet, I knew about a year ago how important it is as I argued the difference between accepting a gift and receiving one in a meeting. So much in my life I accepted without truly receiving -- good and bad -- and as a result I didn't share what I could have. "If you don't give away the gifts you have, there is no space to receive." That from a priest in confession last summer, as he showed me where in my life I was clenching my fists; accepting, but not receiving.I am thankful for the lesson, even as it continues, even as painful as it can be at times. I am grateful.

On this Thanksgiving morning, as my mug is drained, the scones are done, the faucet drips in the silence broken only by the keyboard keys, I am more grateful than I have ever been. I am thankful for the family I have discovered in my dearest friends who manage to take turns every single day telling me they love me (and meaning it more than anyone ever has). For some unexpected friends who pop into my day from time to time offering just the right words (thank you for listening to the Voice that nudges you gently to ask, to speak, to text). For the staff I work with, which includes two amazing Core Teams I coordinate, not all of whom know much about me at all, but who lift me up in prayer, in laughter, in concern for jobs well done, and sometimes in tears and frustration; their position in my heart is unexpectedly beautiful. In the church community, who we tell the teens are a family -- I have found more genuine joy in simple handshakes, smiles, and hugs than I can adequately express. Their intuition as a whole is incredible and humbling. For the absolutely amazing network of youth ministers that has accepted me as a member of their crew, imperfections and all. Never have I felt a greater sense of belonging in a group than I have with these people. There is so much I learn from them every day, so much strength to continue I garner from them, personally and professionally, knowing that truly everything that I receive from them comes from God. For my children, from whom I learn constantly. Their grace humbles and encourages me. Their love floors me. The fact that God entrusted them to this imperfection......a thought that leaves me speechless every time.

I am blessed beyond measure, and never have I been more aware of the blessings. Bottom line, I am beginning to believe my favorite verse "Are not five sparrows sold for two small coins? Yet not one of them has escaped the notice of God. Even the hairs of your head have all been counted. Do not be afraid. You are worth more than many sparrows" (Luke 12:6-7). I am a child of God. No one can take that away from me, and no one can Love me as much as He. Happy Thanksgiving!

behind the glass

This morning I woke wondering if there really is a point to my prayer, yet knowing there is. I said so in my prayer; mentioned both thoughts. Tried to wait for a response, but really felt a need to sit, quietly, pray and listen. Pulling into the parking lot, I found myself wishing I could find some silence inside, but I know there is no silence at that time of day in our church. Mass and construction at the same time. I sat behind glass, watching mass, fully aware that there was more than a metaphor in the moment.

Last week, sitting with my spiritual director, I talked about the edges of my soul feeling frayed, blurry. Bottom line, we were talking about a weakness, a slub in the fabric of my faith -- something that on another day might look beautiful; accidental, perhaps, but a natural part of the landscape of me. On that day, however, to me it looked and felt like a fault, like something I was missing, had broken, or worse, something I had shoved in haphazardly to hold up the rest temporarily and then forgotten about fixing.

I walked the classroom wing, forgetting there would be people there. My desire to be alone with God was being thwarted by the very One I was seeking. Yes, I know He was likely telling me to be with others; that community is the cure for this ache in my soul. But there is a keen feeling of distrust, unease -- related completely and totally to my own desire to focus at work. The fact is, I feel uncared for in some moments. Yet I have a network of those who do care -- deeply. I so rarely see them face to face. They are words on a screen, voices in my phone. They have no arms to wrap around me, no shoulders to lean on, no breath to feel on my hair, no fabric to catch my tears, no eyes to light up when we laugh or smile, no gaze to fall under as we pray together. As I thought all these things, I heard someone call to me, felt swept into a hug, no words were necessary; I realized I was fighting despair and had been sent an angel -- a friend who often surprises me by the very friendship.

After a very brief conversation, I took my coffee and stood outside the door, again looking at the Lord through glass, and wondered: If we had a chapel, could I take my coffee there and visit? Could I sit alone with God while sipping my coffee and really talking like I would with a friend in the early morning hours? Or can I only do that at home, or in the office at my desk in the dark? With my friends, I can go to public places and sit with coffee for hours. In these years of learning and growing in faith, I've come to know that I spent many years keeping God separate from my world. I've worked at breaking down that wall, that barrier to unity in my mind, heart and soul. When I hit publish on this post, I will have a few minutes and I'll go lay on the floor in front of Jesus. I have learned to find comfort there, to be comfortable (an imperfect word) in that place - the actual place of the floor in the church. But there are constraints that I still don't know -- are they actual, or contrived? Are they real, or my own hangups? I ask -- beg -- for answers because there is an emptiness that only God can fill, but if I can't pry the lid off, how will He ever get in?

grains of sand

Today I was asked a question. It was a simple question, really, about a word. One that ordinarily should have been easy or fun for me to think about, turn over quickly, and respond to. But lately it's the small things that stump me. And in that place of being stumped, mentally confounded, I become mired. 

Yesterday it was a dark hallway. I simply didn't have the wherewithal to flip the switch - the two switches - ahead of me. Instead we sat on the floor in the hallway for our meeting. The day before I couldn't even see the label on a dial - one that I've used in the past, but couldn't for the life of me recognize. 

I hurt, and in that place, I am finding the most incredible comfort. But each time I first need to recognize the tiny grain of sand that has caused my gears to grind to a halt. Often I've read the saying about the caterpillar becoming a butterfly; heard that a seed must first endure crushing pressure before breaking open to grow into stem and leaf. The hurt I feel is the hurt of anticipating something wonderful; that of labor. The uncertainty mingled with surety; the clear purpose of the moments that stretch ahead for an indeterminate amount of time. The mental understanding dueling with the desires of the heart, and the natural tendencies of nature and body. 

In my hurt I sometimes forget that I do wait surely for the Lord (Ps 40) knowing that He will reach down for me, lift me up and place me exactly where I belong. And until I get there, He is holding me - sometimes in His arms as a swaddled baby, and other times on His shoulders in unadulterated joy. 

I did ask Him into the boat this week. I've spent the days since wishing I could paint the image I felt. I revisit it like a favorite YouTube video, waiting for the right time to paint it in words. 

In my hurt, I feel joy, gratitude, hope - Love like I've never known from any person. The hurt from persons is pale, this hurt is overwhelming goodness and faith, which may sound paradoxical, but has no other explanation. Despite all, I still wouldn't trade a minute. This life is the one I am to live for a purpose I may never understand, but that I am willing to give to Him, completely. 

In the meantime, I pray those around me continue to remind me of the anchor of God's love. In gratitude I will forever point to their patience, support, understanding. In fact, their very presence. The hugs - virtual and physical - the laughter, the occasional tears I am able to release, the acceptance of my repetitive times, and the distractions. 

Lord, I thank you for the grains of sand that make my world grind to a halt each day. They give me a moment to pause and reflect on Your place in my heart. Break my resistance to You that I might better become Your pearl. 

letting go

Thank you, Lord, for prayers answered. 

What have I learned this week? 

First, that the unknown is best handled by the One Who Knows. Clenched in my hands has been, among other things, a need to know. Where that need came from I do not know, but I do know it is a very developed habit that really gets me nowhere. 

This need to know is different from my love of learning. In learning, there is a process, a goal, actual substantive information. This need to know, however, makes less sense. What I want to know is typically something unknown. Something unknowable. In actuality, the future. A need to know the unknowable is a no win. 

This week I was told the I don't knows belong at the foot of the cross, belong in my prayers; that I can say "I don't know what to say, what will happen, what this means. I don't know what I need. I don't know even what I want, what hurts, or why. And I just need You to know that I don't know." 

When I let go, when I opened my hands and realized what was inside, what I thought I needed to know, was far out of my hands, I began to also understand that it didn't matter. It would be what it would be, regardless of what I said, did, demanded, begged for, cried over. 

I let go. A little, but I did. And in response, reassurance. 

Thank you, Lord, for prayers answered. 

off the boat

Over early morning long-distance coffee, my friend said to me, "I wish there was something more practical I could do." We had been chatting for about a half an hour by that point, and had covered lots of ground. Catching up on the phone early in the morning has a way of speeding things up; reducing the small talk. Then again, neither of us is particularly fond of small talk. 

My response to her came after an image flashed in my mind. An image of a boat on the water. A boat I know well. All the other times I'd pictured this boat, I couldn't figure out what the heck I was looking for, trying to see - or feel. I quit thinking actively about this boat sometime over the summer because I really just felt like the boat was where I belonged - whether the sea was calm or tempestuous, I felt safe, comfortable, and warm there. 

Early in the fall, the boat disappeared entirely and I found myself bobbing in the sea like a cork, or being thrown around like flotsam and jetsam, or trying desperately to tread water while being pulled from below. Yet I still felt that sense of safety, surety. I knew, as Psalm 40 begins, that God would reach down to lift me up, would put my feet on solid rock, would be my anchor and grappling hook in one. 

That morning, the image I saw was of the boat. More precisely, an image of me about to step off the boat - with that same feeling that it was exactly the right place and time. But there was something more. 

Every time I've heard about Peter stepping out of the boat to walk to Jesus, the story has only been about the two of them and what the events after Peter's first steps said about his relationship with Jesus, his faith, the guarantee the Jesus would help and protect us the way he did Peter. But more recently I noticed that first Peter says "if it is you..." (Mt 14:28) He says if. That got me thinking about the doubts he had before he even left the boat. I'd always understood that he began to doubt after he started walking, then noticed the bad weather, taking his eyes off Jesus. (Interestingly, unless it's because I don't read scripture in Greek, I don't see any specific reference to Peter taking his eyes off Jesus. I digress, but it does apply. You'll see.) Maybe that had something to do with me leaving the boat in dry dock for a while. 

My friend's words brought the image back in full color. Only what struck me was the group of people in the boat. My group of people. I realized there had to have been some kind of something going on in the boat behind Peter. I'll never forget the retreat where we examined the feelings we share with Jesus - one of which was frustration with Peter. ("We all have that one friend...") Every time Peter got a concept, he'd turn around and say something that made Jesus do the old face palm. Yet Peter was loved and trusted. Peter loved and trusted. His question of "if" is quite valid when I remember that every relationship is negotiable. When he stepped out of that boat, undoubtedly the others felt something. In that moment, with my coffee cup in one hand and my phone in the other, I saw them all encouraging him, supporting him, because that's what my people were doing in my boat. Rooting for progress; loving, cheering, praying for success. 

And I realized the boat wasn't all that necessary. It, too, is just stuff. The people in it, those who love enough to be honest in their encouragement, they are what matters. The exact opposite of flotsam and jetsam. I am the complete opposite of flotsam and jetsam. 

I am on the water with an anchor of my own that I also share with an abundance of others. 

today is different

This morning as I left the bathroom to dress for work, I happened to catch myself in the mirror. For the past few years, I have only looked at myself as parts when in front of a mirror -- checking my eyebrows, my teeth, nostrils, arranging or styling my hair, analyzing the effect of an outfit. Today was different.

Having spent a good portion of my life in front of mirrors as a dancer in endless classes (that have, unfortunately, stopped very temporarily), I have rarely been afraid of the reflection, and sometimes been somewhat unaware of the image in front of me. There have been times when I have been startled by my own reflection, like Bambi the first time seeing himself in the pond. And there have been times when I found myself making comparisons in the mirror -- to others beside me, to a former self, to the doctored images in magazines -- and coming away ashamed, embarrassed, uncomfortable. On rare occasions, I have seen myself and made promises to change a routine, a habit; made resolutions to 'work on' my physical appearance.

Today was different.

There have been far too few times that I have looked objectively at the image staring back at me. Instead, I allow the image to control my reactions. The interesting thing is that the image is not even what others see. As a reverse, my reflection highlights flaws through no fault of its own. That's just how it is. I cannot see what others see, especially if that's what I'm looking for. The closer I look at my image, the more I scrutinize it, the less reality I see. Self awareness needs to come from the inside. The true me is someone I can only see from my perspective inside of me -- and only I can truly see her. All of her. I've forgotten to look at her. In the neglect I've felt and experienced, I have developed a habit of practicing the same. The key to my future is locked within my own hands, and is related to allowing me to come out of myself, to step into the light of my own eyes, to be seen not as a mirror image, but as a daughter of God.

Today was different.

As I left the bathroom to dress for work, out of the corner of my eye I caught sight of a woman I hadn't even realized was smiling. The image I saw was filled with joy, anticipation (and not trepidation - the curious and interested kind), and happiness. The face looking over me filled me with hope. She's not the entirety of me, but a glimmer of what is to come. And she changed my outlook. Time and again, I ask God to show me where I'm headed, who He sees in me, what I am to do next in the grand scheme. He answers my plea on occasion in my interactions with people I know, and strangers I meet. Today was different. That quick glance, that solid image from the corner of my eye, though not a perfect replica of me, did show where my inner self is heading.

I have hope. I have faith. I have Love. I have a future - a future that embraces my past and my present as honest and important truths of who I am, who I will be, who I am becoming. I am on my way.

Today is different.