a better place

Sometimes I forget where I am in comparison to where I was. I don't think I'm alone in that, but at those times, I do feel quite alone. There's no rhyme or reason to the "what next?" hitting me, nor is there any "usual" response I feel. Roughly two years ago, I made a list - a double list, actually - that serves as reminder of where something resembling rock bottom was, as far as Love (pseudo-love?) is concerned.

Things I'm not Allowed to Do
-post anything that can be perceived as negative on FB (or blog, or email, or talking with someone)
-Ever tell anyone that we've had a fight/argument, etc.
-use the words Always; Never; Everyone; Nobody; Every; or any other absolute
-interrupt
-complain when interrupted
-yell [or even talk loudly]
-point out when someone else is yelling, especially you
-exaggerate in any way
-get close enough to see when I'm not wearing my glasses
-ask what I am allowed to do
-have any complaints or negative feelings. Ever.
-exhibit stress in any way
-have no emotion
-have temper tantrums
-notice [your] temper tantrums
-finish any argument [that would mean admitting we're having one - duh!]
-walk away
-follow
-say that I'm wrong
-change my mind or have different opinions in different circumstances
-Grow

Things that I want to be able to do
-Be myself, even though I might have an "off" day
-Laugh
-Be sarcastic
-Be serious
-Know that someone is listening to me
-Cry
-Feel respected
-Sleep when I'm tired
-Relax - Not the sit-down-with-feet-up-doing-nothing kind - the kind where I can focus on what I'm doing and enjoy it for what it is because there aren't 400 other things that I have to remember to do/tell someone to do
-Be polite
-Feel like home is not a game/battle to be won
-be on a team; someplace where the page is the same for everyone
-Speak frankly without tantrums ensuing - mine or anyone else's 
-Go to the bathroom when I need to go to the bathroom

I keep these lists handy - with the things I wanted to be able to do face up - and although I don't look at it every day, it does manage to catch my eye from time to time and soothes me. Every one of those things I now have. More importantly, I recognize the other list for what it is: a picture of a life I am no longer subjected to, a life no one should be subjected to. And I'm able to see myself as I was, what and how much I didn't know. I had no idea of my worth, my value, even my spirit. I see articles sometimes and hear people say that we allow the bad behavior that affects us, and I no longer get angry about it. Sometimes we allow things because we don't know there is something else, something better. I didn't know, so I allowed that first list to become my life. It's when I began to learn about alternatives, options, reality (actually) that I made the lists. They were an effort to improve the situation. My life has improved exponentially - though not in the way I expected the day I sat down with a piece of notebook paper. I've discovered that sometimes the only way to have a clean slate is to get a new slate. Would I have chosen this path? Not in a million years. Would I trade it? Not for a million dollars. Do I regret that time, that period of my life? Not on your life. It helped to shape me. I am where I need to be. I am doing what I need to do. I have people I need in my life - people I need because they support and challenge me; they Love me, without any trace of pseudo-love. I am becoming who I am supposed to be - and I know, without a doubt, that I will never be completely her; I will continue to grow and change and learn and be reborn. And I wouldn't have it any other way.

there is do

This morning I sat at the dentist and got a crown. When I arrived, I was asked if I would like Novocaine or not. Of course I wanted it, which is a fairly new thing for me. Not too terribly long ago, I had a filling replaced without any meds. After all, I had delivered three babies without any medication, right? Why would I need any for a silly tooth? And I didn't care for the feeling - or lack thereof. A month or so ago when I had the temporary crown molded and placed, I'd needed a second shot; the nerve that "sometimes is a problem," according to the dentist. In truth, since my oral surgery 15 months ago, I am uncomfortable with anything other than cleanings at the dentist. He understands - and apologizes each time, though he needn't. It has nothing to do with him, or with the oral surgeon. It just is. The nerve that is still awakening is the best explanation I can offer, and even that is something difficult to understand.

The crown was to fix a cracked molar. The surgery, to remove my wisdom teeth, tori, and an osteoma, left a nerve disturbed on the left side of my mouth. Until very recently, the feeling was such that I couldn't help but clench my teeth. It's been explained to me that is normal and expected with parethesia,or altered feeling. I remember the day I thought I might be clenching hard enough to break a tooth. It may very well have been the day this molar cracked. I remember telling myself I needed to try to relax my jaw; especially when I realized I was doing it. For a time I had medication to relax those muscles while I slept. Even still, I would occasionally remind myself to try to relax.

Someone very important to me reminds me from time to time that Yoda was right: there is no try, only do. When I need reminding, he tells me about asking people to stay where they are and try to move the clock on the mantle, and asking just what they will do to 'try'. It's in those moments that I realize just how right he is. There is no try. One cannot try to help someone, or try to be a friend. Either we help, or we do not. Either we are a friend, or we are not. Sometimes the effort is rebuffed, yes. And sometimes even when we do, we fail. But trying to do is not possible.

In my experience, those who tell me they are trying to help me are actually saying they are uncomfortable. Instead of being honest about that, they are hedging. Sometimes it saddens me, and other times it's disappointing. Occasionally, there is a realization that I've been taken advantage of, or that there has been an attempt at manipulating me. There are so many memories of things others were 'trying' to do for me, with me, to me. The reality was that what was being done was something else entirely. Even now, I know that those who 'try' are excusing themselves. Effort is something else entirely. Pardon is not required of effort; it needn't beg excuses, as trying often does. Effort is true.

I was reminded of this twice today. First in the numbness after the crown. In that numbness, the symmetry of my mouth was restored, temporarily, and I realized the importance of doing something to make something else happen. That numbness allowed me to let go of the tension on the other side of my jaw. To stop trying. It allowed me to let the release be real, sustained. As the Novocaine wore off, I discovered new sensation on the opposite side. Now, in the evening, I have a very small area where the parethesia is acute - an area at least half the size it was this morning when I awoke. It is delightful, to say the least!

The second came in an "attempt to do something nice." Do or don't do. This attempt business is confusing. I have far more respect for the person who told me they had been wanting to ask a question, but didn't quite know when or how it would be appropriate. That is far more honest, and honorable, than those who try to help, or (my favorite) don't want to upset me - another form of try. It doesn't work. Either I am upset, or I am not. Either I can answer, or I cannot. Either you are helping, or you are not. Clarity of language is important.

There is no try.

holey socks

Most of the way through the day I suspected that funny feeling was a hole in my sock. I've since confirmed, and am about to take the socks off and toss them in the trash. They have red and white stripes and gingerbread men on them. I used to pull them out purposely and very intentionally on days when I planned to bake Christmas cookies. I even thought about that when I grabbed them this morning. 

Here's the funny thing: I am so looking forward to dropping them into the waste basket in my bedroom. They are one more little instance of disposing of old habits. Old actions and reactions. Old outgrown parts of me that must just go. This is the second pair of socks this week that will go, and the third in a month. Eventually I'll need to get some new socks, but not until I have an opportunity to assess what really should be kept, and what should go. 

More should go than stay. 

I'm sifting quite a bit lately. And, to be honest, it feels damn good. Not just socks and clothes that don't suit me - either because I've 'outgrown' them or because they never really were my style - but other things, too. Things like emotions, reactions, interpretations. Things that are no longer - or really never were - practical. Things that matter to my heart. That's the kicker: I'm sifting through everything I see, hear, and feel to find what matters to my heart. 

Sometimes that hurts. Sometimes it hurts an whole big bunch. But most of the time it feels liberating, awe-inspiring, joy-filled. I have the freedom to look at my decisions with a new lens; a lens of clarity. With a vision of me. 

Only I can determine how important these socks are to me. How necessary they are to the memories I hold close. Only I determine their value. In truth, they are just stuff. And all the stuff, I can let go. 

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. 

blessed beyond measure

I am learning to see the distinction between being alone and being isolated. Last weekend, I visited - no, I lived, in a very true sense - with friends I met in school. In school online. Friends who are without a doubt family to me. Never in my life have I been so cared for, loved, comforted, or at ease. What struck me tonight as I finished my run was the fact that even during the times when I was alone inside my head, I felt at home. Not once did I feel left out, despite being the only unattached party (my friends are two married couples). In fact, their moments alone as couples within the proximity of our little group were inspiring, heartwarming, and so very comforting.

There was no hurrying or rushing anyone. In fact the only tense moment came when I was asked a question and offered a response that even I saw as especially vague. In a flash I learned what it is to have feet put to the fire! I answered definitively - the answer I really wanted to speak in the first place - and we were on our way. 

Juxtapose this with the times I was isolated, set apart, cajoled for my inherent need for a few minutes alone. Isolation is painful; whereas aloneness is refreshing. Isolation that is forced is downright abusive. 

I am stronger today than I was a week ago when I was packing. I am home again with a promise from my friends that they will continue to love me, to encourage me, to understand me. Perhaps the understanding is the most wonderful thing, as it is a mixture of all the rest. It includes the promise to call me out on poor choices, setbacks, downright stupidity. I love them. They are my family, having common experiences, shared memories, related humor, deep faith - differing in doctrine and practice, but significantly similar in strength. They love my kids, and are appreciative of my work, my talents, my flaws, my quirks. Never have I felt so comfortable in a room full of my peers. 

I am. I am alive. I am thankful. I am more. Not despite, but because. I am worth more than many sparrows. I am never going to forget that. 

on our way

In about an hour, the rest will arrive to board the bus that will take us to Newark, and we'll be on our way to the Holy Land. This is a trip I never thought I would take, and the fact that we leave today has still not completely sunk in. The fact that I will not only see the places that are so much a part of our faith, but also feel the air of the desert, feel the salt and minerals of the Dead Sea, ride a boat in the Sea of Galilee, is unbelievable.
I've prayed that I would stop asking how this is possible. That I would stop wondering why I am able to go. That I would be able to simply say thank you to the Lord who drew me here. But I still am so awed and surprised that I can't do anything but follow. "I will go, Lord, where you lead me."
The past year has been so filled with small steps and giant leaps of faith, and each one has pretty much left me in tears for one reason or another. I wouldn't trade a single moment. Sharing the stories brings back each and every associated emotion, and sometimes it's more than I can bear. I'm learning to give over to God positive experiences, as well as the hard things; something I never considered before.
I am not only grateful for what lies ahead, but for each step that brought me to this day, this packed bag, this anticipation in my very soul. Carry us safely, Lord, and show us your hometown through senses opened by your love.

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.

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. 

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

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?

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

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.

ask why

When I was in high school, I had a boyfriend I thought was all that. After dating him for about three months, I invited him to a New Year's Eve party that my parents were taking us to. I knew there would be very few kids our age there, and really didn't want to spend the evening with just my sister to keep me company. Did I "forget" to mention to him that there would be Mass at midnight? Probably--which means, of course I did! In my own awkward and unpracticed way, I was trying to invite him into something our family did together without it being weird. Did I realize that less weird for me might be more weird for him? Did I care enough to wonder? No way. I was 15--I was concerned more about me, and how I felt.

Everything was going great--we were hanging out with my sister, maybe we watched TV or played cards. The thing I remember most about that night was Mass. The adults started filing downstairs to the basement where we had been all evening, and that was his first clue that something was going on. I tried to play it off as something I saw all the time. In truth, I was a little freaked out at them coming downstairs--Mass in a basement with no windows is weird. And there is a ridiculous amount of discomfort associated with the realization that you purposely yet unwittingly tricked someone into being trapped in a basement with no escape. I tried to ignore the daggers he shot at me, until, about halfway through, he leaned over and asked, "Why do Catholics do that? Why do they sway like that? It's weird." I turned my head and saw what he saw: everyone swaying--not side to side as one would do when holding a baby, or dancing to music--forward and back. And so was I.

I answered him honestly. "I don't know. I never really noticed before." But it was the last time I did. For months afterward, focusing on not swaying occupied all my attention. Then it became habit to stand stock still. Save for the days (years!) when I baby-swayed, I haven't moved at church. I sit, stand and kneel, but no swaying.

At the time, I had all the answers. I had all A's in school, read a lot, and felt like I knew everything. That question that stumped me was hard to take. It made me doubt myself, my gifts, even, for reasons I may never understand, my faith. Up to that point, I had thought of faith as a given, but with one question, I was thrown. For one simple reason: I didn't know who I could ask. Even then, I figured it had something to do with equilibrium and some other physiological factors, but at church was the only place I ever saw it. I was never told I was supposed to, or that people do for various reasons, nothing. It was a void, a black hole.

Black holes suck in the stuff around them, and this one sucked in quite a bit of goodness. It sucked in just about all the faith that I had. I started asking some questions, but without a clear idea of who to ask, I wasn't really looking for answers. Instead, I was asking questions to point out what I didn't like, the quirks, the stuff I didn't understand--all in such a way that I really was making fun of what I didn't know. And it got to the point that I thought asking questions was a bad thing. If I didn't know, there must be something wrong with me. Funny thing is, though, I only felt that way about questions related to faith and its practice.

Fast forward. I met a great guy. We got married. Had kids. Went to church. Got busy. Time passed. Life was crazy, but good. We were showing our kids faith. They weren't asking too many questions. Nobody had to know what I didn't know--not even me. It was good. Or so I thought.

When Dad died, I started to realize there was something missing in my faith. It wasn't a given. I did a lot of taking in the days, months and years that followed. In many ways, I was still that 15-year-old girl, at least as far as my faith is concerned. Had I considered that might be a legitimate question to ask, had I had someone to go to, high school, for me, may have been very different. All that taking and selfishness turned me more and more inward. I still went to church, I still did the things I thought faith-filled people did, and eventually I hit a wall. And I kept hitting my head against it.

Fortunately, that was mistaken for knocking, and a door was opened. I was having a miserable time, feeling like everything was falling apart, and someone I didn't even know very well told me that if I wanted or needed to, I could call. Just the invitation opened another door: the one in my heart. Soon after, I offered to take Mom to Faith Matters at church, and, lo and behold! Within a couple of weeks, I heard that questions are good. Ask them. Look for answers. And don't stop until you understand. It didn't take long for me to realize that was my nature; in my "real life," I asked questions all the time. Relentlessly, sometimes!

I still don't know about that swaying, but I have had many questions answered--most of which lead to more questions. (I'm in heaven!) And my kids have been asking questions, which makes me so proud of them, especially when they humble me by asking one I can't answer. I love telling them we'll find out together, or to direct them to someone who might know. I've gotten to know the person who offered that invitation, and although I have never called, I have emailed, texted and messaged--a LOT!

And I am forever grateful. My heart dances.

held accountable

Accountability comes up often as a topic at work. And at home, there is a certain sense of accountability in the reasons for following our parental instructions when it comes to the boys working together to get chores done, or reporting in as we've instructed them. But accountability in my faith is something I had never considered until recently, and it's been on my mind ever since.

The only reason I began considering it is that I was asked, flat out, to whom are you accountable in your faith. That's quite a paraphrase of the actual question, but captures the essence, as well as the crux of what's been echoing through my mind. I struggled with answering the question--one of a couple on my 'sheet of paper' that had me thinking and praying quite a bit. [As an aside: the thinking and praying on these questions was not like any I had done before. It changed me a bit; nudging my steps on the path before me. Quite a moving experience, if you'll pardon what looks like a pun.]

On paper, after a belly laugh in my soul, I wrote the truth as of that day: Other than wanting to be a good example for my children, I had never even considered external accountability.

I haven't stopped thinking about it, though, and when the subject came up again the other night, I paid close attention to what I was hearing. That conversation was actually about Confession, and a dear friend suggested we could be "Confession buddies." Her husband stated what a good method that is. And what I heard was accountability. I don't know if we'll follow through or not, on that particular 'activity'--I have a whole bunch of questions that I admit amount to excuses, but really need to be addressed, gently and personally. I do see the benefit of that kind of accountability, and the comfort that would ultimately come from it--for both of us.

I'm left wondering, though: where am I actually lacking accountability? Where in my spiritual life would more accountability help me to grow? Do I expect enough of myself, since I am, at present, just holding myself accountable? Or am I on the right track because by holding myself accountable, rather than doing, learning or being in order to fulfill someone else's expectations really puts my journey as something between God and me? I know that in the end, He is the only one I will need to answer to. But I also know that I do not, cannot, have the strength or knowledge to journey alone. If there should be more accountability, where do I find it? In whom?

The answers will come slowly, I'm sure. (It's a 'journey, not a race!') The important thing is the asking, and beyond: seeking the answers.

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.

everything, something, nothing

Far from knowing everything, I muddle through. Truthfully, I wouldn't want to know everything; the burden would be too great. Often it seems that bliss comes from knowing Very Little. Or knowing Just Enough.

And yet, there have always been people that, in my mind, know everything. Not Everything, mind you, that's way more than I would wish on anyone! Simply everything. Chatting about this the other night, I came to the realization that if I believe that someone else, someone "in charge" or who is leading, knows everything, I can go about my business making believe that I know Nothing. If I believe, or pretend to believe, that someone else knows everything, I don't need to step outside myself to see just how much I do know. And I also don't have to face that awkward moment when I know something that the Someone Else doesn't know. Does it really matter who that Someone Else might be? No. It can be awkward, regardless.

I also came to realize how hugely unfair I was being. There are people I go to for answers. Sometimes big answers, and sometimes smaller. I don't remember Dad ever saying, "I don't know." He would sometimes make something up. Other times he would say something that wasn't much of an answer at all, then come back later and explain or clarify. Occasionally, his answers would begin with "I wonder...." Around my kids, he would say things like, "Let's try it" or "What do you think?" Or "Go see what you can find out, and then we'll talk about it." I know he read voraciously, so he did know Quite a Bit. But I wonder now if he felt pressured to know everything because he was the dad.

Over the past few days, I've come to realize how truly wonderful it is that I know Something. And that I know Enough to know that I have so much More to Learn! I've written before about my penchant for questioning, and my trepidation when it comes to asking. Perhaps that anxiety is related to not being asked; I don't exactly know. And perhaps it is related to the very strong anxiety I have when it comes to offering that I do know Something!

That simple bliss of knowing Very Little doesn't really exist in my heart. By allowing (or encouraging!) anyone to believe that I know Nothing, I am inadvertently deflating my own spirit. That's not what I'm here to do! I would like to know More, but I also would like to share my own Something.

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.

for many reasons

This entry begun on January 18, 2013. I don't know why I didn't finish it, but I suspect because the direction was not quite right, although the content is quite precise.


"Why are you here?" was the question, and was meant to be contemplative. The question, while directed at a specific person to help clarify another question, struck me as the one I needed to contemplate and pray on.

Why am I there? At first, my presence was a by-product of my desire to do something for someone else. And I got hooked and found myself learning more about myself and my religion than I thought I wanted to. Before long, I was there for me, and the someone else was a nice addition to the evenings. At some point, my focus shifted, and I felt peace. That was a different gathering, or class, if you will. A study.

This one is different. This one is about history, too, but not in the same way. This one is also about self--self-sacrifice, contemplation.

a hug

Yesterday began with a hug from a near stranger. Not often does something so unexpected seem so comfortable and familiar. Hours later, another hug from someone else, along with the words, "You give great hugs." Just a simple statement of fact, and I realized one more of the pieces of "me" I have let go somewhere along the way. As I heard the words spoken close to my ear, almost feeling as though they were inside my head rather than outside, I heard echos of the same from loved ones now flung far and wide, physically and spiritually.

Dad used to comment on my hugs; usually with a simple word of thanks. Mostly our hugs were unconventional--a squeeze of the hand, or his left arm around my shoulders and my head on his, my right cheek on his chest. Recently, I recalled in that moment, someone else had told me about missing my hugs, but I can't for the life of me remember who. And that's when I realized and remembered how much I miss the genuine, spontaneous, joy-filled hugs that used to explode out of me everywhere.

I've been watching for the me things, the gifts I've been given, entrusted with, and that I should be honing, sharing, returning. A number of years ago, I lamented to a friend that I was missing the hugs I used to share with classmates, co-workers, and oftentimes, people I'd just met. He immediately hugged me, and offered to receive any hugs I might have pent up. He is still a very dear friend (who also is an amazing hugger!), but I don't see him often at all. Luckily, I have a family--both of heart and of blood) who hug hello and goodbye.

Somewhere in there, in what I can only describe as an effort to fit in, I have turned myself into a square peg trying to fit into the round hole that is reality; that is my space in this world.

Paddling on the water yesterday, I found a piece of me. One that I had forgotten was missing. Our fearless canoe adventure leader told me that she leads this group because on the water is where she found God again, and in sharing the wonder of nature, she is doing what she can to give praise. While she did not emphasize the "again" part, I could completely identify. I found him again on a highway. And ever since, I've been letting him lead me back to me. To him. And what I'm finding is that being myself is enough. The true myself: the one that wants to be comforted like a child; the one that wants to comfort; the hugger, the laughter, the listener; the hermit; the butterfly---the one that is me.

There are days when I am contentedly moving forward at a snail's pace, but what is really awesome is that I am not spinning my wheels, lost and alone. I am right where I am, and right where I am supposed to be.

Armed with a hug.