my favorite pants

Yesterday I sat down for lunch, crossed my ankle over my knee, and discovered that the lower edge of my pants was frayed. Not just frayed, but threads hanging frayed. My favorite pants. My. Favorite, Pants. I'd known they were not long for the Okay to Wear To Work category, as they were fading some, but with all the snow we'd had, and an appointment and a meeting after work, I needed something that would float between work and not work. Seeing the frayed edge made me a little sad, but I still had most of my day in them to go. I reminded myself they were my favorite pants, and pressed on.

Arriving home, I decided to peruse Amazon for the style and brand, hoping against hope that I could find them based on the mysterious numerical codes on the tag, since the original tag with the familiar name was long gone. Finding the tag, I noticed that the waistband was also a bit worn. In fact, all the seams were less than new looking. They looked like broken in, well-worn, very loved favorite pants. That I could wear on a weekend when I was feeling particularly casual.

And I realized I was looking at a metaphor.

Until I took a close look at them, my favorite pants looked fine. Not great, because they were clearly beginning to fade, but they looked fine. Fine enough to wear to work once a week (usually on Friday, my own personal business casual twist). But once I'd seen the truth - the frayed edge of the back of the left hem - I began to see the signs of something more going on. Each telltale spot of wear tugged at my heart in a very different way than some other areas of my life I've been seeing with new eyes. In the biblical context my therapist sometimes like to use, once the scales began to fall away, I've been seeing more than the simple cracks and bumps in my life. I've begun to see the true wear and tear, the dangerously close to breaking parts, the more than a little frayed. My favorite pants fit me. They function. The zipper and the button and hooks are all solidly in place and functional.

But I have to be honest and admit they do not work as dress clothes any longer.

I bought a new pair of pants today. They are similar, but not the same. (They do happen to be the same color, but that was a function of supply, not a matter of true choice.) They may or may not become my next favorite pair of pants. Slowly I will begin to disentangle myself from my attachment to these old pants, until eventually they sit in the bottom of my drawer, even more threadbare than I can imagine at the moment. And I will gratefully say goodbye. Until I looked at - really looked at - the seams and edges yesterday, I had no idea that I could have a 'relationship' with a pair of pants. In reality, that's not what this is; rather serving as a metaphor for a good and true relationship's life cycle. There are neat memories associated with these pants, from work things to personal things, from family events to meeting new friends. I felt good wearing them in part because nearly every time I wore them someone told me I looked nice - someone different just about every time; strangers sometimes. Saying goodbye to a friend is hard. Ending a relationship is painful. These are pants; it'll be much easier. But knowing that all of that wear was happening without my notice for the simple reason that I wasn't even considering looking is a reality check. I find myself in a bit of a life predicament, wondering why no one told me they were getting a bit tired. I've asked enough people that I trust to explain that to me as a life lesson. The response varies, but what it really comes down to is that with scales on my eyes, I couldn't have seen anyway; would not have accepted the idea.

I'm learning to trust more - to trust my instincts, to trust those who love me day after day. to trust the people to whom I choose to open my heart. I'm more selective than I've ever been before, and also more open. More me. My relationships and friendships are now what I want to see in my future, who I want to see there. More honest - like the new relationship I will have with my favorite pants, except the people I'm talking about may spend more time with m public than these old pants.

I just realized the metaphor in having a shopping buddy, like I did tonight. I have a group of friends that have informed me that they are the interview panel for certain levels of friendship. And they are a tough crew - individually and as a group. For that I am so very grateful. When taken at its very basic level, it's kind of like shopping for new pants. At one point, trying on the pants I ultimately bought, my shopping buddy simply said, "Let me see the waistband at the front?" At that moment, I realized that the hard question, the scrutiny that made me feel the most vulnerable, really was the key factor. I needed a shopping buddy to help with the decision I may not have even considered facing. I need my heart family to do the same.

confessing and renewal

The funny thing about confession, the sacrament of reconciliation, is that it works to make you feel better. It really, truly does.

Today as I walked away from the priest who spoke to me as Christ, I felt lighter, more real, and truly determined to move forward. To go forth and improve where and who I am.

With Your help. With Your help, Lord. Thank you for listening to me, for knowing my heart, and for also being my voice. I love you, Jesus.

dig in

So, here's the thing -- I've been needing depth. Depth in conversation, depth in faith, depth in learning. I feel stuck. Questions come to mind about all kinds of things, and I want to dig in. Trouble is, I don't know where to go, I can't afford to go back to school at the moment, and I can't do it alone. I need some fellow diggers. People with questions of their own. People who want to talk about their questions; not just to find the answers, but the explore the possibilities. To laugh at the ridiculous, while also realizing there's no such thing if the heart is pure. This need for depth, this need for exploration and inquisition, has me off-kilter. When I'm off-kilter, I fixate on things, and lately that fixation is the questions.

Who's in?

meant to be

“Because sometimes you have to step outside of the person you’ve been, and remember the person you were meant to be, the person you wanted to be, the person you are.”
H.G. Wells

A friend posted this quote this morning, and I haven't been able to get it out of my head. Funny thing is, for a good part of the day yesterday the thought ran through my mind again and again, although not in quite the same words. Friday at work I had a glimpse of some mission statements, and something about them bothered me. I hadn't slept well the night before and figured whatever it was would either come to me, or wasn't all that important. As I woke yesterday, there was still a niggling something, so I focused on it, trying to puzzle it out. 

It occurred to me that I don't want to, never intended to, live in anticipation of life. So much time was spent in wondering and talking about what I "wanted to be" when I grew up (I still don't know) as opposed to "who I am" right now. Would I be further along in my quest for finding me if I looked more deliberately at who I am now? At what talents I possess now? Often I stumble upon my "potential" and end up disappointed in myself. When I bring it up with my therapist, he tends to ask what I've accomplished. We sometimes talk about how I could have handled something differently, but bottom line is, i did. I do. I have. I am. When we talk about the future, he recommends dreaming big, and then analyzing the feasibility, rather than looking at what my resources are first. Sort of a "God will provide" attitude, I suppose, as long as the aspiration is in line with my real future -- the future God has intended for me. 

Maybe. 

My big dreams surprise even me. As a result, I have yet to share them, or even write them down. Someone recommended asking God to show me how He sees me, where He sees me. What I see when I ask is always the same, always fills me with peace, and always surprises me. It's not what -- or where -- I'd expect. Again, it's not something I've really shared. I don't quite know how. Or with whom. In some ways I'm isolating myself again, but in a different way, and for different reasons. Yet it feels so much the same. 

After lunch yesterday, I felt an urge to purge, to make a pile of things to get rid of. I've come to realize that the need to actually see a pile of stuff to drop off for a yard sale or consignment is related to another very real need. A need to clean out a closet in my mind or heart. To clean up something in my life that I have more control over than I realize. To take a hard look at myself, where I am, what I'm doing. To step outside myself and see if I am headed toward the person I'm meant to be. There's a pile of old cookbooks by the door now, and a pile of clothes that will get bagged up. Before long, I'll need to open the door on a closet I haven't paid enough attention to, and see what's been gathering dust in my soul.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

unmuddling my mind

A couple of months ago, I stopped with words. A few weeks ago, I had mentioned that I stopped writing, but now I realize that there was more than that. Words didn't come to write, and even reading lost its lifelong appeal. Again, I found myself pondering what had changed. So much, so little; and yet I can pinpoint a series of events or thoughts that precipitated the change--a series that happened mostly at the same time or in rapid succession. At some point I read something about blogging being nothing but narcissistic, regardless of the reasons we think we have. This occurred along with a general feeling that no one really, truly cares what I have to say in the grand scheme of things, nor should they. I didn't want anyone to--I just wanted to journal my journey. But it did make my wonder why I might feel the need to scream it out loud. I purposely walked away from my laptop; would only check websites on my phone (a rather cumbersome way to type when compared to a keyboard), would only write down single sentences (copied from others' works) into my datebook to record my state of mind for the day, would force my way through the reading I had found assigned to me. I thought it must be time for a change or something.

But change in interests is a far different thing from change in lifelong loves. You can take that as literally or as metaphorically as you'd like. The fact is, I don't remember ever not reading and writing. I don't ever remember forcing myself to do either--although I have backed myself up against deadlines quite a number of times! Here I was, dreading the thought of reading words, of having words in front of me. Why?

A little over a month ago, I was encouraged to go back through my old blog posts to find something I was looking for. That evening, I was given quite a bit of advice, and took all of it to heart and followed it, to my best ability. Except for the blog post advice. I intended to. A few times I sat down to. But I just couldn't do it. For a week or two, I made excuses to myself about being busy, having a slow computer, being busy, needing to clean or cook--or sleep--being busy. And about that third time telling myself I was far too busy to read my own work--after all, I had others' works that needed to be read for my personal development--I realized that I was scared.

Scared that I would find what I was looking for.

And when I realized that, some other things started happening in my life. Or in my head. It's sometimes hard to tell which. I remembered a few people telling me how touched or moved they were by my sharing my journey, and the people who had asked me for prayers--not advice, or guidance, or anything else from me; just my prayers. I had two strangers startle me into very present moments, offering me gifts of words, and pieces of paper. And I found a blog by an amazing young woman I once knew who shared her journey of faith throughout her pregnancy. Her baby lived about 8 hours: a miracle in every way. The strength of her faith, her willingness to share both her joys and sorrows was nothing short of inspiring. There was nothing narcissistic about it.

The fact is, my journey got kind of stalled for a while. And I wasn't sure how to share that. Sharing the good stuff is more fulfilling. Sharing the hard parts is when I've found the judgement starts, the comparisons, the "see? I told yous." I was stuck. I worked myself into a frenzy trying to do all the right stuff, the right way, at the right time. Instead of keeping my relationship with God open, I tried to force it to get better, bigger, more. As a result, I felt overwhelmed, overwrought, and ultimately, bored. In the past, when I'd get in a fix, I would write it out, pour out the words that came to mind and not really care how coherent it was. Part of my frenzy was in making sure everything I wrote made sense. I guess you could say that I worried that others were depending on me to get this right, and in that way, I did make myself the focus.

These days, I'm in a better place. I'm not bored, that's for sure. I've found the love of faith that I had been all but ignoring. I'm still not rolling along quite like I was, but I've been realizing that may be, at least in part, because I've not been writing it out. My laptop is still old and slow, but I know that if I do not make the time to attempt to work out my confusions, I will never leave them behind.

not just a question

What's changed?

On the surface, if just reading the words, the question is simple. Further contemplation brought me to the simple answer, "Everything, it seems." I started making a list.

1. I haven't done any yoga in what seems like forever. (probably about a month)
2. I've been cranky at work, for a number of reasons (none of which really are my problem, incidentally)
3. Working at soccer games means that I have missed Adoration for a while.
4. I reprimanded myself for asking questions--for being who I am, for reasons I cannot even identify fully. (this was the most disturbing one, in all honesty)
5. I realized I was actively avoiding writing anything down. No blogging, no quotes, no notes. Nothing. (when I hit this one, I stopped. Something clearly was wrong.)

Looking at the list, my first realization was that I had been blaming outside stimuli for all of these things--too busy to exercise, others' issues, scheduling I had little control over, a book I wasn't prepared to read, a sluggish laptop--instead of looking at what in me was leaving me stranded.

So I turned inward.

And I realized I had allowed, for some reason, a kernel of doubt to settle in. Like a popcorn skin stuck between molars, that little kernel of doubt irritated and discomfited, until even the good stuff was not getting past to my heart. The doubt was not in any Big Ideas; it was my old arch nemesis, self-doubt.

I realized that I had been worrying more about stuff I didn't know, and that didn't matter in any Grand Scheme, or even (in all honesty) to me. In lieu of self-examination, I was frantically looking for answers I didn't even need. My fixes were treatment of symptoms, rather than looking for a cure. And my fixes were many. Mostly they involved more and more, until I was working myself into a frantic mess.

Then a question. And I'm finding Trust again. And Hope. And Love.

rocks and hard places

Looking out over the vista, grateful for the gifts of memory and review, I found myself excited to move forward, when the time was right. Not long after that post, there was a phone call, some earnest questions, the beginnings of some new life phases, and when I opened my eyes, I was surprised to see a pile of rocks and boulders in front of me. "Yep," I thought, "after that rest, it's time to climb. Thanks for the prep!" and up I scrambled.

First I picked my way around, hopping over the smaller rocks, and looking for footholds and handholds to make my way higher. Then I scrambled up the sloping rocks, and the boulders with flat spots, wondering just how high I would ultimately have to climb. Without warning, I've found myself in a crevice, and (having ignored some sage advice: "And when you want to go explore / The number you should have is 4) without a hand or a rope to pull me out.

It's given me time to think. (No need to panic. I'll find my way out; I'm sure of it.) What I realized is that despite how far I've come, something has not changed. Once again, the first thing I did was decide what I needed to do. In and of itself, this is not entirely bad. However, when courses of action are not even considered--let alone tossed aside as infeasible--things may not turn out as intended. I'm pretty sure, now that I'm heading on toward frustrated, that there were other very reasonable options.

It's entirely possible that I was supposed to choose a rock to carry, or that I was to move some of the rocks out of the way. It's also quite possible that I was looking at a rock waiting to be chiseled and molded into something else, some beautiful figure that only my eyes could have seen under the smooth, round surface. Or that someone else may have been stuck in the rocks, and I should have listened for their cries for help.

It's possible I was being invited to sit and watch more of the view developing.

I need to work on moving past my dependence on myself and myself alone. I thought I had. I forgot that moving forward does not mean forgetting what was behind; leaving missteps off the map. The good is in the journey. I have always believed that, but have often, in my full-steam ahead, missed the forest for the trees.

To dig or to jump or to wait. Something to think about.

standing still

I've found myself at a standstill. Last week, I had this sense of.....what? I could only identify it as darkness, but that didn't seem quite right. Since I really didn't know what it was, I began to push against panic that darkness was going to descend, long before any darktime weather. I almost called a couple of friends to alert them; to have their warm thoughts shore me up. I resisted (and instead overdid social time, to the detriment of my psyche, and my belly). When I stopped to consider why this sense of something, I realized there was no darkness, only calm. The kind of calm and quiet that is palpable and strong enough to keep me in one place.

At one time, this kind of standstill would have pushed me to wonder why, or what I had done wrong, or not done, to be stuck when I had been moving right along (albeit slowly most of the time!). Today, though, seemed like an opportune time to turn around and look at where I've been, how far I've come. Each day on this journey, I've been reminded, in one way or another, how far I have yet to go. And how far I am behind where I could have been, had I made different turns and avoided some detours and unnecessary exits. (This latter part is always argued--without those fits and starts, I would not be who I am, and therefore could not be where I am now, which is right where I'm supposed to be. While I know this, the thought still creeps in on occasion, and must be pushed away or dealt with.) For the first time, looking back over the course, there is no feeling that I've missed something, or left something behind. I'm pleasantly surprised to see that I have actually covered quite a bit of ground! The place I left from is far in the distance, not just a step back, as I've sometimes feared.

This part of my journey has been moving toward, not away, and I can almost see the change in my stride at that transition. My steps may be slower, but they are surer, stronger and steadier. This view is breathtaking and humbling and uplifting, all at the same time. And I find myself grateful for the standstill; for the time to allow this all to sink in, to take root, to sprout wings. For the first time, I do not find myself resisting the inertia. And I wonder if past resistance has brought on the listlessness and dejection that I find in the darktime (which is still a long way off!); if perhaps there was more looking out I should have done, when the tendency was for me to look inward when the spinning of the world slows......

Should have done matters little. Outward I shall look, and use this glance behind as incentive to move ahead. If I can come this far, I can go this far again plus one step more, and then yet again this doubled distance plus one. And when it's time to move forward again--tonight, tomorrow, next week--I will be ready, willing, with eagerness anew. Into a sunrise.



"The price of anything is the amount of life you exchange for it."
~Henry David Thoreau
(thanks, Lee!)

here and now

What an amazing and glorious week! As Guy and I weeded this evening, he looked at me and said, "I feel like I've been on a week-long retreat!" He then listed the activities that have driven us forward on our journey this week.

Grace Uncorked on Tuesday, where Fr Michael Gaitley talked about God's Mercy and the Sacred Heart. And where we met some people whose faces we'd seen many times, as well as some we'd never seen. Where we shared wine, snacks, and fellowship, laughter, knowledge, and even a few tears. And where Mom rediscovered the joy of helping out.

Mass for the Feast of the Assumption on Wednesday with Joseph, who actually asked one of his Monsignor questions, and got a really good answer. And where we ordered some Boy Scout popcorn.

A fireside with dear friends, and dear friends of theirs, where we talked about all kinds of things, with faith stories and questions mixed in, and marshmallows and s'mores, too.

A birthday dinner on Friday, celebrating not just his 19th birthday, but 20 years of living here in PA. And afterwards, talking with Mom about prayers and people who need them.

Saturday, we spent on the river, paddling with a group of adventurers from our church and another. Where we came upon a 'water path' through a grass island, and I asked Drew if he thought maybe Eden had a stream like the one we were on. And where we saw swathes of purple flowers, herons and cranes. Such beauty, such peace, such power.....

Afterwards, we picked Mom up and ate dinner with our fellow adventurers.  Love, laughter and stories, food and wine, unexpected interconnectedness and forever friendships. And a feeling that we've known each other before, or forever, or both.

This morning at Mass, hearing a Missionary speak about his life in Ethiopia, and the children and families he works with there, and the amazing faith he exuded. Then the sudden realization that that familiar feeling comes from the folding of time, and actually sharing in the same prayerful events, putting us in the same place--the Sacred Heart--and being so thankful I cried.

Then later going to meet that same Missionary at a friend's house, and discovered I was sitting and (literally) breaking bread with someone very special: certainly a living Saint. He shared more stories of the people, the children, the challenges, the love, the miracles he's seen. He blessed a young man who stopped by and is leaving for Marine Corps basic training in the morning, and gave him a Miraculous Medal to keep him safe. After the young man left, he asked questions about the training, with genuine concern. He promised to pray for the boy by name. I have no doubt that he will. Before we went, I was figuring we would be there for half an hour or so, and excuse ourselves; two and a half hours later, we were wishing he did not have to leave for another speaking engagement.

The blessings of this week are many and great. I know that I am being prepared to give back in equal measure (circling back to Tuesday's talk and lessons), and the amazing and fantastic thing is, I am not only prepared, I am so looking forward to it! I don't know exactly what will be asked of me, but I have never been more willing. I looked at Guy tonight, sitting by the fire, and said that I thought this week had been the best week. "Ever," he added, with a smile and a nod.

I am, we are, right where we need to be.

know no know

A dear friend of mine tells me from time to time, "You know more than you know." Although I don't think I've ever heard him speak these words to me (he usually tells me via text message or email), I hear his voice saying the words. And they echo in my mind, sometimes taking on various forms and meanings:

You know more than you know.

You no more than you know.

You know more than you no.

Each is equally uncomfortable.

I've struggled at times with "no-ing" without thinking. There are times, as Momma, that I have been caught in a No battle, saying the word before really thinking about it. Then I would be stuck in a conundrum of either backtracking or holding to the automatic response when I realized that No was not really the best answer. More recently, I realized I was using the tactic to avoid giving the most honest response: I was asked if perhaps I could be called to lead a Bible study, and my first response was a series of Late Night Top Ten reasons why it would be a questionable idea. I left off Reason #1, though: I've read so little of the Bible it's a bit embarrassing to admit. In the end, after a whole lot of searching and a number of things hitting me right in the head, I had to admit that I No'd too automatically: the real answer was "It's possible." I do No more than I Know sometimes.

And last night, I was at a youth ministry informational meeting, the leader, in response to something I didn't hear, said, "How many theology degrees did St. Peter have?" It was just what I needed to hear. I blurted out that I feel like I don't know anything.  Our pastor, sitting next to me, said that I know more than I think (something that, under different circumstances, would have really bugged me), but there was a chorus of others who said they felt the same way. A discussion followed, about hearing and listening, learning and growing, resources and comfort levels. All the while, I heard my friend's voice in my ear.

I don't think it's any coincidence that the story of Jesus on the Road to Emmaus (Luke 24:13-35) was presented to me twice yesterday. I story that I had heard of, but had never, to my recollection, heard. In a nutshell, Jesus appears to these two guys walking along, and asks them what they are talking about. They tell him the story of Jesus' death and resurrection, and they they all have communion together, at which point they realize to whom they are talking. The point being that Jesus will come to us, where we are. On my journey, I am right where I am supposed to be, at this moment, and where I am is where He will be, if I let him travel with me. I've read a number of times over the past few months that the key is to travel with, not ahead of, and not behind.

How do I ever know what I know? It's funny, because I recognize when I no what I know, and when I know what I no, but knowing what I know is harder to see. It's far more nebulous than even I care to admit. Frankly, it frightens me to think about. I wish I knew why. I wish I knew where to start thinking, contemplating, pondering. I wish I knew how, or when, or who, or if I should ask for guidance, or if it's just something to figure out on my porch when I'm alone.

You know more than you know.

Tell me what it is.

ups and downs

I find myself less solitary lately. Instead of feeling anxious about going to new places, I’m willing. Not necessarily excited, but willing. The interesting thing about this is that I feel more myself; an odd development, as for so long being around people meant trying to be someone other than myself. There were precious few people who could ever see the real me. This had as much to do with them as with me—I was traveling in circles that were not my own; where I did not feel welcome for reasons beyond the people and personalities. In all honesty, “myself” was someone with whom I was not well acquainted. At least in certain situations. And, of course, there were also those times when I had let my true self shine through, and had been burned in the effort. I recoiled, and allowed myself to curl in, tighter and tighter.

I’ve found that the more myself I am, the more myself I can be. True hearts will accept and appreciate my many facets and faces, my faults and frailties, my strengths and dreams. True hearts connect on a heartfelt level—not on the superficial level I had been avoiding for so long. Spirit is the connection, rather than simply enthusiasm. The people I share my life with—my heart, my mind, my laughter and tears—are concerned more with others than with themselves. I fit better with that mindset. It’s far more uplifting than worrisome. The amount of energy is similar, but far more energizing and rejuvenating. Whereas in groups I had felt isolated and alone, I now feel together with, even when I am by myself.

Still, in the past week or so, I realize I have been turning inward a bit. I’m not quite feeling lost, but I am starting to think the directions may have changed. Construction is underway, it seems, and I’m in the middle of it. There is noise, and a mess all around me. The temptation to blame my stress on the interior noise has been great. Then I read this line tonight, “At moments of great stress, we reach for what comforts and sustains us.” (Sweeney, The Pope who Quit, p.202) It made me curious about chicken and egg thoughts, cause and effect relationships, comfort and discord. In the instance Sweeney was referring to, Peter Morrone was returning to a life of prayer as a hermit. My personal stressors are nothing like those he experienced as Pope, but then again, my stressors are my own, and cannot fairly be measured against his, or anyone else’s. Nonetheless, giving up everything I have and do to head for the hills is not an option for me. I may be feeling the need for some hermit time, but really, what I'm looking for is the root of my angst. It's there, hiding. Knowing that, realizing it, is what makes it possible to fight that demon.

Oddly, the best way is often to spend some time with a friend or two.

shapely swirly spirals

The narrower circles seem easier to figure out. A common bond, similarities in personal histories, questions that are parallel or identical. Yet I still wonder if and what lesson I am learning, or about to learn. While enjoying the moment--the learning, the sharing, the laughter and the tears--I am also hopeful and confident that twenty years from now, when I look back, I will see even more of the beautiful picture created by the swirling, twisting, spiraling trails left in the dust of the common paths we trod; even for a short time.

When I was younger, I would anticipate the longevity of relationships, oftentimes predicting "when we are old" and dreaming of the friendship at that point in the future. When those people that were "season" friends, or worse, not actually friends at all, but something else in disguise, evaporated from my periphery, I would mourn. Eventually, I realized that I was trying to live in a future that I could not predict, rather than living in a present that was real. Probably in an effort to ignore or escape a past I did not want to remember.

As my life circles around, again and again, I have begun to understand that when I come back to the same place, there is a lesson I haven't learned, or taken to heart. That's where some of the intersecting circles come in. A very dear friend of mine frequently says, "Another thing we have in common!" Each time, I am so greatly comforted! Sharing fears, frustrations, those funky realizations that could make or break an emotional bank, sharing even a small part of those things clarifies the lessons they represent. Lessons about love, honesty, charity, looking forward--with a firm hold on the reality of now.

One of the coolest discoveries I made, and I've written about it before, is that my friends--my real, true, dear friends--are all people I would love to have in one room together for a party, a discussion, dinner. They are all people with whom I would share my celebrations and my sorrows. And in that realization, I see the Venn diagram that is our lives, the intersecting points of our individual spirals, even the odd "Hey, I know you!" of a group of seemingly random people who do, indeed, have much in common.

The circles and spirals in my life exemplify my place as a child of God. A part of a whole. I'm a huge fan of paisley patterns, the more swirly and intertwined the better; and have long wondered just what it is that appeals to me. Sometimes, when looking at a pattern, I see the complexity of my own thoughts: the things I think, feel, ponder, bounce around, that I can't quite seem to grasp or express. Or let go of. Other times, the simplicity of a repeating shape sooths me. It depends on the day. I once told a friend that if I were ever to get a tattoo, it would be a paisley pattern. She readily agreed that would be the best representation of "me." I wonder if the appeal is really in the "road map" a paisley pattern represents. Or the way the segments fit together and overlap, as we do when we embrace one another. One of many, belonging together, becoming more colorful with each lesson learned.

Perhaps, dear friends, when we are old and grey and wrinkled, it will be because our paisley pattern has become filled with the color that is us; the lessons we have learned, the gifts we have shared, the joy and strength we have shown, the love we have been. Where once I complained about "coming around again," I now can see that returning to a place is an opportunity to realize that I am right where I need to be. Right where I am.

momma mia

Over the past few days, I have been getting gentle reminders of the importance of my Momma-ing. And the complexity of the job. All of these reminders are little bits of consolation related to wherever it is that I'm headed.

We've already had our discussion at Book Club about Thomas Merton, but I am still working my way through the book. Although I know I will never be "done" with this book, I have also not yet finished it. One of the very common threads I've run into (you might find something else, or I might the next time I read through it) is the gentle admonishment to be myself, to be the self I was created and intended to be. I know with certainty that a good part of that self is a mother, or mother figure. I also know that as Momma, I muddle through, partly relying on what I've learned from other mothers I admire, partly making it up as I go along, and often asking for guidance.

In the past, asking for guidance came more in the panicked moments when I felt at the end of my rope, stretched too thin, or terribly frightened. In the past year, I've put on a different spin. Nowadays, I ask daily--well, almost daily--for reminders that I am Momma for a reason, or at the very least, for help remembering that much of what I do is an example to my children. In the end, I'm probably asking for guidance, help and support just as much as I always did, but the end result is so much different! Whereas I used to find myself stressed, used up, tired, afraid--in reality, depressed--I now feel more strength to face the challenges, and actual joy that I have them to face. Being a mother is not easy; there are times when no one is happy with the outcome of making and following rules, or following through with consequences. But time and again, even my children have told me how important it is that we do just that.

There have been times when I've told myself there must be more to my life than being their mother. That when they are grown, I will need to find something else, and for that reason, I need to develop other aspects of me. I'm finding that the other aspects of "me" develop best in the context of my identity of "mother." Thomas Merton has helped me to realize just how far-reaching "vocation" is. In an essay on marriage [below], I found the most amazing joy that what I knew was another vocation of mine (marriage) was another shining facet of me. It sounds crazy, but I've lived with a misguided inclination to compartmentalize my roles in order to really show who I am, and, frankly, it's always made me quite uncomfortable in my skin! In actuality, the facets cannot be separated. A prism may separate the colors, but they are always united, touching and attached to each other. I am always, at once, mother, wife, daughter, sister, friend, employee, co-worker, student--all are me. Not simply pieces of me that I can pull out as I need them.

In this knowledge, I've found freedom. Freedom to choose growth and forward motion. Freedom to be the me I was created and intended to be. I still do not know precisely what that means beyond this moment, but I'm also free to follow the road where it leads. Building the road myself was getting me nowhere. Fast. Progress is still slow at times, but the view is far more spectacular when I can free myself of every last detail.



        We would be better able to understand the beauty of the religious vocation if we remembered that marriage too is a vocation. The religious life is a special way of sanctity, reserved for comparatively few. The ordinary way to holiness and to the fullness of Christian life is marriage. Most men and women will become saints in the married state. And yet so many Christians who are not called to religious life or to the priesthood say of themselves: "I have no vocation!" What a mistake! They have a wonderful vocation, all the more wonderful because of its relative freedom and lack of formality. For the "society" which is the family loves beautifully by its own spontaneous inner laws. It has no need of codified rule and custom. Love is its rule, and all its customs are the living expression of deep and sincere affection. In a certain sense, the vocation to the married state is more desirable than any other, becuase of the fact that this spontaneity, this spirit of freedom and union in charity is so easily accessible, for the ordinary man, in family life. The formalism and artificiality which creep into religious communities are with difficulty admitted into the circle of a family where powerful human values triumphantly resist the incursions of falsity.
        Married people, then, instead of lamenting their supposed "lack of vocation," should highly value the vocation they have actually received. They should thank God for the fact that this vocation, with all its responsibilites and hardships, is a safe and secure way to become holy without being warped or shriveled up by pious conventionalism. The married man and the mother of a Christian family, if they are faithful to their obligations, will fulfill a mission that is as great as it is consoling: that of bringing into the world and forming young souls capable of happiness and love, souls capable of sanctification and transformation in Christ. Living in close union with God the creator and source of life, they will understand better than others the mystery of His infinite fecundity, in which it is their privilege to share. Raising children in difficult social circumstances, they will enter perhaps more deeply into the mystery of divine Providence than others who, by their vow of poverty, ought ideally to be more directly dependent on God than they, but who in fact are never made to feel the anguish of insecurity.

No Man Is an Island, Thomas Merton, p. 152-153