passion and purpose

In the two weeks since I was told I have no passion for my work, I've been told spontaneously that I have clear passion for what I do, why I do it, who I do it for. Mostly by strangers - three of them, to be specific. Twice by parishioners - parishioners I don't often talk to. And none of them were people who could have known what I was told in that meeting. In each person's voice I heard the Voice I'd been urged to listen for. The still, small one. The one that overrides the lies. The one I was advised to hear when two people are telling me the same thing in different places. That is the true comfort when comfort is most needed.

Interestingly, it's not in level of passion for my work that I need any comfort. Once upon a time, through a good bit of spiritual seeking, I was drawn to the conclusion that the way my life, my heart, my spirit, even my memories and emotions were compartmentalized is not right, real, true. Integration is hard work. Painful work. But I am a determined woman, and I worked hard to integrate my interior and exterior lives. There's only so much progress one can make alone, and only so much more with an untrained, unprofessional adviser.

I remember the visit when my therapist asked, "So, do you think [A] and [B] are annoyed they agreed you should talk to me yet? Because if they aren't, they probably will be soon." I was growing, changing, integrating. And now is the time.

My passion is me. Understated, but strong. Willing, supportive. I was asked recently how long I'd been involved in youth ministry. Officially, three years. As a paid youth minister, 6 weeks. But when I think about it, I realize it's been almost half my life. In a religious environment? No. In truth, I didn't really even think about it. When I danced and taught dance, I actively mentored the teens I was in class with, befriending them, being myself, and being willing to listen to them, offering another perspective, based on experience, perspective, and, yes, faith. Working in the library, I took an idea the football coach tossed out, developed and ran with it. My passion even then was quiet, but clear as I arranged for Junior and Senior football players to read in elementary classrooms. Driving them back and forth, we'd talk about the game that night, the kids in the classrooms, tests, teachers, and classes in the high school. Those two seasons, I watched those boys grow in a way I hadn't expected. I helped them choose books, and wrote them passes for study halls. Each and every one of them finished the season with an assurance from me that I would happily be a reference for them at any time in their future. Every conversation with them, every picture I took of their time in classrooms, was shaped again by my experience, perspective, and faith.

Funny thing is, I never saw any of it as anything beyond me being me; me being someone who loves them as they are, and because they are. The kids I met through dance are now adults; some with children of their own. I get to see where they are through the 'magic' that is Facebook, and miss them all the time. Fewer of the football players are Facebook friends, but I do see their mothers there from time to time, and my heart swells when I hear updates on any of them. The teens I've worked with more recently are as imprinted on my heart as any of the others.

The truth is, I was never hired for my passion. I was hired for a purpose: To lead teens closer to Christ. Love and truth are what are necessary for that. Those I have; those I show. These past two weeks when I've been told my passion is clear, I wonder a little what is meant. My friends assure me, and give specific examples. Frankly, I expect that - I appreciate their support more than I can say. It's the others who touch me especially deeply - the card that came in the mail from states away, telling me how contagious my energy is; the card in my mail slot at work that encouraged me to stay the course, no matter what; the priest who told my on the phone and in person that what youth ministry needed most was the kind of enthusiasm and passion I bring to it; the sister who told me my dedication and strength inspired her. I was hired for a purpose; for my organizational skills. And in there somewhere, I found passion.

Ironically, in the same place I began my work at integration, I've been required to compartmentalize. I can't anymore. At least not to the extent I'm being asked to; it's not real, true, natural. Actually, compartmentalizing is a great way to kill passion, dedication, faith. When I was told I had no passion, I wasn't hurt by it [two friends - both men - told me they would have been devastated by a comment like that] or even surprised, considering the source. I was, however, disappointed at the attempt to control my emotions, and at the same time pleased that I recognized it as such. Something we've been working on in therapy: recognizing the actions that tended once to trigger my reaction to shrivel and shrink. I'm not the willing victim I once was. I have miles to go before all this is behind me, but I am on the road to healing, and moving at more than a snail's pace now.

alongside of me

God knows I need time. He patiently waits with me - not across the heavens or even across the table. He stands, sits, and lays beside me; silently. He knows he needn't convince me of this because his presence is enough. His presence is enough because I am enough; he made me so. We don't talk because right now that is not what we need to get close. We both know it will not last forever. He better than I, and that is why he waits with me. Not to prove anything; rather, for understanding to process. It is well. I make mistakes in the meantime - I am a child testing my limits with the ONE who loves me without question. He is, indeed, my one. He is the gardener, the weeding is his. People often misunderstand the silence I'm holding with God. A trusted guide tells me the silence is prayer; a form I'd not previously experienced or expected. A form I'm not entirely comfortable with, yet not quite uncomfortable. Every deepened relationship allows for the silences, the times when self-reflection supersedes. He supports me through this, he smiles on me, laughs when I laugh - he laughs when I cry sometimes. He knows what I need and is allowing me the time to feel. And he graciously allows me to feel this pain, this fear, this process of healing. He knows that time alone feels like the (forced) isolation to which I've grown accustomed, easing me through those times, whether that means leading others to me, me to others, actions, activity, what may look like "more" to those who don't understand. 

at the door

She stands at the door, poised to exit; her hand pressed to the wood, her torso twisted back in response to those who have last things to say. The star-studded darkness beckons her quietly, while gently those inside continue to offer all she's needed, always. And yet, it is not those closest to the door who speak and reach out, but those in the furthest corners of the room; their tender love rooting her to the spot on the threshold. Those nearby, with whom she spent the most time at the gathering are nonplussed, as if finished with her company, making her wonder if this lingering matters to them, annoys them, if they even notice she is so close to leaving, perhaps for good.

She recognizes the feeling in all its complicated layers. So long ago thinking that being disappeared would matter to no one. More recently, realizing that being replaced unceremoniously is a recurring theme in her life. Always staying in place because of the example she'd admired from childhood; wondering all this time - all her life, really - whether the promise was worth the effort. All the while knowing that it must be, and yet....

So she stands, talking,smiling, laughing over the heads of those nearest, knowing those on the edges are holding her, while torn and broken inside. Turning away would be so easy. Pushing the door open and stepping into the darkness. An argument in her very core: the darkness may be Darkness; the darkness may be the moments before sunrise and glorious Light. Her eyes fool her, as do her feelings. Her mind tells her the door may be locked from the outside; there is no return. Her heart tells her that even if that were true, those on the edges of the room would undoubtedly open if she knocked - if they can hear her, of if they can push their way past the oblivious ones nearer the door - those who are unaware of their role in this moment, despite the strength of their message.

She smiles and talks, laughing with those on the edges who, in their hearts truly know, and cry along with her; tears of sadness, hope, joy, love. Love. Love is on the edges of the room.

"The image is clear and sharp in your mind because it is the one that represents everything that has ever happened in your life." Again and again. Painfully true. She wonders about pushing through the door. About trust and faith. About steadfast Love. And friendship - true, deep, intimate friendship. And the nearness of God.

on my way

Last week in small group, we started talking about those things we always wanted to do, to learn, to try, and whether 'now' is a time to consider them again. Our small group leader talked about getting his motorcycle license a few years ago, after many, many years of thinking about it. Since I've always wanted one, too, we talked a little about the process here. Someone else in the group pointed out that I'd been painting - choosing colors, prepping, enjoying the entire process. And it gave me the courage to think about old dreams; dreams I'd thought were lost, or at the very least, relegated to the darkest corners of my memory, only to be brought out in that 'someday' time when my grandchildren are thinking about what to do with their lives, and I am there to offer the advice that would make my own children crazy.

Growing up, I always knew I wanted to be a mom; that's no secret. No one, and I mean no one, considered it a career option I should dedicate myself to. After a while, I tried keeping it to myself so I could explore options, at least on paper, and I found myself truly interested in a variety of fields. I wanted to be a dancer. I wanted to study international law. I wanted to continue with my French and Spanish studies, and work at the UN as a translator. I wanted a job that had me traveling the world, but also gave me the opportunity to be available, always, to my children. I wanted an office with my name on the door and an assistant who would show people in, because I wanted to be able to say, "No, I don't know that person. Send him away." I wanted to be a photographer. I wanted to live out of a suitcase because the world was my home. I wanted to make things, paint things, envision things and see them come to life. I wanted to work for an organization like Make-A-Wish, Habitat for Humanity, Ronald McDonald House. I remember once, to my mother's horror, saying that my dream job would have me wearing a cap and carrying a clipboard. [at the time I was watching one of the first FedEx commercials] I wanted to be a helicopter pilot. I wanted to ride horses, to live near the water. I wanted to study psychology, and be a social worker.

Sitting in that small group, all of my dreams washed over me, gently, soothingly, and I admitted what was most on my heart. I was discouraged from all of my biggest dreams; not always directly, and not always logically, but I was a kid. And a kid bent on pleasing somebody - anybody. Unfortunately, no one had ever encouraged me to be me, to understand that I have worth, that my dreams matter. No one told me that I matter. I don't even know if anyone 'in authority' knew that I was terrified of auditioning - so much so that when I came to the realization about a year ago that an audition is very similar to a job interview, I nearly fainted. Instead, I was reminded that I "hated school" (a half-truth; I hated not being myself, and being a teenager, it was safe to blame school); UN appointments were relatively short-term; work travel and family don't mix; I wasn't taking a science; non-profits don't have paid employees; "none of these options are appropriate for an intelligent and attractive young woman like you." None of my dreams were appropriate for me.

Being a mom has been the most rewarding and challenging career choice. It's not been without its sacrifices, and I would not change any of the choices I've made. Are there things I wish had turned out differently? Some. However, the truth is, They are fine young men, amazing to watch in everything they do, and I'm honored to know them. They've taught me more than they will ever realize, and because of them, I will be able to finally, somehow, follow some of my dreams. Because of them, when I look at all the dreams I had (when I was right where they are now), I realize that my real ideal - what I shared with my small group - is somewhere in the family of project management for an organization like Habitat. I was afraid to share the realization with them, but suddenly the air was alive with ideas, suggestions, affirmations. I was surprised, and taken aback. I don't recall ever having been in so supportive a spot. These new people in my life, with whom I share rather tenuous connection, told me where where they saw the connections in my life to this newborn dream. And they made me feel loved. In the space of minutes, they had me working internationally, on a schedule that fit my entire family, as well as all the fun things I like to do: dance, sew, write, paint. In those moments, they gave me a clipboard, a cap, a passport full of stamps, and a couple of new languages. A sense of being, and gave my wildest dreams life. More than even encouraging me, they supported me. My heart and I are on our way.

not forgotten

This morning, sitting down with my coffee, I opened my bible study journal and read the prompt, psalm 142:6-7, and psalm 13:3. Which fits better today?

I cry out to you. Lord, I say, You are my refuge, my portion in the land of the living. Listen to my cry for help, for I am brought very low. Rescue me from my pursuers, for they are too strong for me. ps142:6-7

How long must I cry sorrow in my soul, grief in my heart day after day? How long will my enemy triumph over me? ps13:3

In my notes, I had written that psalm 13 fit more what I felt today, or recently, although neither fit perfectly. After I worked through the prompts, I did what I usually do, and read the verses before and after; context is everything. The entirety of psalm 13 made my heart laugh and break at the same time.

How long, Lord? Will you utterly forget me? How long will you hide our face from me? How long must I carry sorrow in my soul, grief in my heart day after day? How long will my enemy triumph over me? Look upon me, answer me, Lord, my God! Give light to my eyes lest I sleep in death. Lest my enemy say, "I have prevailed," lest my foes rejoice at my downfall. But I trust in your mercy. Grant my heart joy in your salvation. I will sing to the Lord, for he has dealt bountifully with me!

 I laughed because of a comment from my spiritual director one day: "You have no problem demanding from God. Maybe you should just tell him how you feel." The demands at the start of the psalm are pretty much the ones I'd been making: show me; help me; love me. My heart broke because in all my recent journey, I have trusted in His mercy. I have seen Him at work in my present and my past from my new perspective. I have sung to Him, and been filled with immeasurable gratitude for His tremendous generosity. God amazes me because even in my most difficult moments, He will send the most personal of gifts for me alone, if only I am open and aware of His presence. This morning, psalm 13 did indeed fit best -- but not because of one single verse.

*

There's this story that's been wandering through my thoughts, but cannot escape. The story is willing to be told; I am more than willing to tell it. But parts of it will be lost in the preconceptions of certain audience members. Not all of the story - in fact, a good bit of the story - is not pretty, so sharing is likely not possible. 

Or so I thought. At times reliving parts of the story gets pretty painful. Lately, in the midst of conversations with a new friend, I'm struck by a memory long forgotten, or pushed away, and I become distracted by a view of my past through a different lens. One changed by age, experience, faith, any number of things. I hadn't any idea making a new friend could be so frightening, which is ironic because I've never been excited about meeting new people. 

Yet I've been told again and again that I have been given a gift in this story; one that I am to share. 'A gift received is to be given away.' I felt cornered; stuck between a rock and a hard place, as it were. 

Until tonight. Tonight as I drove on the highway, I felt sure that I was never going to be able to tell the story as it should be. I was almost convinced that instead I should quietly walk away. That I should politely decline any encouragement or invitation to even talk casually, and leave storytelling behind. It tore at my heart - does now as I recall - but I couldn't figure any other way. Walking into the church, I knelt and asked where next, since clearly I had been going in the wrong direction. 

The music enveloped me and I allowed myself to listen and respond. 

I'm not sure when the realization came: the story I share needn't start at the beginning. Those details are not always important, although the generalities of them might be. The journey, the results so far, the decision to continue - those are the key points. I lost myself in the Christmas decorations still adorning everything and considered motivation and commitment. Just what sticking it out means. The fact that there is One who didn't walk away when the questions or answers got hard. 

I don't quite know how to share my story yet, but I have a far clearer view of why I might. I have a voice, I have a story, they are gifts to be shared with those who need to hear them. 

And I will. I will share them. 

waiting

Playlist on the drive:

Lord, I'm Ready Now, by Lauren Daigle

Be Held, by Casting Crowns 

Go ahead; look them up on YouTube. This can wait. 

Now look up psalm 40 (or 39). The one that starts "Surely, I wait for the Lord..."

It's the next part that I'm counting on so many times. The part about lifting me up and placing my feet on solid ground; on rock. In safety, far from the mire, the muck, the raging sea. I heard those songs, one followed by the other, and repeated again and again "surely, I wait" on my way to the adoration chapel, where I now sit, alone except for the company of the Lord; blessed by the silence and solitude where I can cry out to Him and ask again, "what is it You want from me?"

To let go. As the song says, to let go and be held. To let Him hold me, rather than the other way around. Even as I hold my faith, I realize I need to give it away. I need to let it go if I hope to keep it. 

Surely, I wait. 

I wait for the strength to let go. 

I have an anchor tattoo on the inside of my left wrist. It's been there about two months. Before that, I drew an anchor in the same spot for six weeks or so. Some people ask about it; some do not. Some pretend not to see it while they rather obviously "sneak" glances while talking with me. The anchor is a symbol for hope, but that's not exactly what I was thinking of when I fist started using an anchor as my reminder to pray always. Rather, I was thinking of despair. 

Surely, I wait for the Lord. 

When I first read this verse, it was part of a penance - select a psalm, any psalm, and pray through it. All of it. For a long time, I couldn't get past the first few verses, and could only really concentrate on this first message: Surely, I wait. The wait threatened to consume me, to distract me. Slowly I realized that surely, in context, held more confidence than I was attributing to it. I reread: confidently, I wait for the Lord, and He heard my prayers. Again and again I tell the kids I work with to pray because God will and does listen. Again and again I wish someone would remind me. Because again and again I find myself focused on the wait. Not the anticipation, the wait. 

The anchor and the grappling hook have much in common. Both hold fast. Both require the user to trust, to have confidence, to be sure. My anchor keeps me from drifting, whether in calm waters or raging storms. My grappling hook keeps me from falling, assisting me in my climb. I was told once that "God could have flashed lightening and kept this from happening, but He didn't. There must be a reason." 

Surely, I wait for the Lord. He could lift me, literally, if He wanted to, and literally place me on solid ground. Or He could be my grappling hook, holding my rope fast to the rock that is my destination. Or He could be my anchor that keeps my boat from being tossed around unnecessarily, and crushed against some obstacle. I am prepared: I have a hook, an anchor, some faith. 

I've been concerned that what I am holding is some big, imposing falsehood disguised as truth or need in my life. But what if what I'm holding is simply a mustard seed? Doesn't it, too, need to go? Mustn't it fall to the ground to grow? 

Surely, I wait for the Lord. 

Surely, I wait. 

Surely. 

I wait. 

I wait, in anticipation. 

Surely. Just be held. I'm ready now. 

behind the glass

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

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

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

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

grains of sand

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

letting go

Thank you, Lord, for prayers answered. 

What have I learned this week? 

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

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

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

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

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

Thank you, Lord, for prayers answered. 

off the boat

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

today is different

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

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

Today was different.

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

Today was different.

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

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

Today is different.

open your hands

At times, the feeling is so strong, I can feel my nails digging into my palms. But when I look down at them, they are open; not clenched. My own eyes deceive me, because my mind's eye still sees that there is something I'm holding.

"What I see is that you are holding tight to something," the priest said to me. He was a stranger; a confessor at a conference that I would never see again. Yet he understood my heart in a way that was eerie, comforting, and challenging. "In order to receive, you must let go. I get the impression what you are holding is your gift; something meant to be shared that you are afraid to show. You must open your hands to let it flow out of you. Otherwise, you will be unable to receive more to give." Like the servant with the single talent, I hold tight to what is most me out of fear of losing myself.

On those few occasions when I have managed to open a finger or two to the view of a trusted few, what shines forth between us is indescribably beautiful. In those precious moments, I feel invested, encouraged. Safe.

But they are few and far between.

I feel the pressure of whatever it is that I am gripping. I look down at my hands on my lap, on the table, or hanging by my sides, and there is nothing there, but I know that is a lie. I'm holding, tightly, to something that is not mine. Not something worldly, but something that's been entrusted to me to give to the world. I feel unable, unworthy, and I hold on. Waiting until I know I am in the right place -- and knowing also that there is no knowing. There is trust.

Lord, if I let go...
"When you let go."
Lord, when I let go, what will happen?
"You will be held."
Lord, when I let go, if you hold me -- when you hold me -- I will be helpless. I will feel helpless.
"You will be helped. You will be held."
To what am I holding so tightly? It's something in my heart, and the thought of letting it go -- it isn't that it scares me; it eludes me. I look at my hands and it isn't there, but I can feel its weight, its gravity. The need to loosen its grip on me, and mine upon it, is visible, tangible, obvious.
How do I let go? How do I open up to receive?
"Just do."

"Let go. Receive."

Perhaps I need to rethink letting go; what it means. As long as letting go means giving up in terms of sacrifice, I may not see progress. I may not be willing to take the chance. I will be held. I will be caught if I fall; swept up into arms of Love. Embraced and soothed for as long as is necessary. Forever. How do I let go? How do I open my fists to set free my being? What is this last thing I cannot release?

almost empty

I went for a run today. I've been running quite a bit again lately. Wondering, actually, why I really took a break from it. The answers to that are myriad. Complicated. Maybe even irrelevant. My runs lately are a break. A time to refocus my mind, body, and energy so that I can clean out cobwebs in my mind. I begin my run with a prayer - a conversation with St Sebastian, the patron of athletes. I ask him to run with me, to encourage me, to push me to work harder or to rest as appropriate. I then pray my way through three miles, generally the rosary. Two rosaries, to be specific. My training tool, as it were.
The last two times I've gone out, today and Friday, my route was blocked, quite near the beginning. I had to change direction, determine the course on the go. Be satisfied - delighted, actually - by the unexpected change in plans. Friday the variation was slight, but added a quarter mile to my run. Today, I changed the route entirely when I came to the blockade.
Another unusual similarity in my treks: both days I had someone pull up and ask me directions. Simple things in both cases, the same direction, really. "Continue straight ahead and you'll be there." Very grateful faces looked back at me. Both times I gave the directions out of breath, sweating, and red-faced from running. Both times as they drove off I wondered about crossed paths.
My run today became a walk home when tight muscles and raw emotions combined to draw me to contemplation. As I let myself catch my breath, the roadblock - a bridge out on a path through the park - those asking directions, and a text I saw this morning came to mind and worked their way into my thoughts, the more conscious ones. I found myself encouraged to continue where I'm going. To trust my instincts because they are being led by Love, and to guard myself against any idea that I am either on my own, or able to make my way on my own. I am not my own light. I am, however, guided by a Light that will never fade.
There was a season when I ran from. All my running was to leave something behind. Eventually my running evolved into running to; an effort to reach or find something for which I was searching. Something that turned out to be both inside and outside of me. After I returned home, watching TV with my kids, I realized I am in this season running with. I hope I remember to continue that way, regardless of the detours.

oyster shells

We try to avoid asking "Why" questions in therapy. As a result, walking along the shore, I found myself asking, "What is it about the shore, the beach, the sea that draws me? There must be a reason You call me here, Lord." I wasn't yet done with the thought when I was transported to the shore of the Sea of Galilee on a beautiful day early last spring. "Ah!" I smiled. "It's our home."

The hours I spent on the beach Thursday evening and Friday morning were definitely a homecoming. I walked along as my feet were gently caressed by the waves, or my knees soaked. To my left, the infinite expanse of the Atlantic Ocean; to my right and up a bit, the sand. Along the edge of the waves' reach was a swath of shells. Hundreds of thousands of them, looking almost orderly in their arrangement. I found myself admiring the colors and the shapes, until I realized that in essence, they were all alike: clam shells of various sizes and colors, but the same shape. I thought about the times friends had gone to the beach and returned with a shell or two as a gift, all very much alike. There is a perfection in their shape, in the sturdiness of the thick shell, and the colors are amazingly varied, As I began to wonder which represented me, I caught sight of an oyster shell. Half buried in the sand, it was wet, black, and bumpy; irregular and angular in comparison to its mates in the sand. Reaching for it, I thought it was the most beautiful shell I'd seen in the mile I'd walked.

"Its beauty," I said aloud, "is not only in its imperfection, but in the result of its pain and suffering." I felt a kinship to this oyster, tucking it into the palm of my hand. Occasionally I would see another to add to my palm, getting sand under my fingernails, and dropping it on my clothes as I walked. At one point, I stopped and turned to look to the horizon, again seeing the Sea of Galilee. The beach there, I was surprised to find, was made up of millions of the tiniest shells I had ever seen. I thought of Abraham and the promise that his descendants would number the stars and the grains of sand -- and wondered that I was one of them. A grain of sand, the tiniest of shells, in the grand scheme of things. I was so grateful, I cried and laughed as I said a prayer of thanks and praise. What a blessing to be one of so many! And to see the magnitude of the metaphor. Overwhelmed, I opened my hand to again see the beauty of the oyster shells.

They had become white as they dried.

Again I cried out with joy! Like the shells, I am carried, always, in the hands of the Father. And while I am there, in His love, I am made new. Each and every day, if I ask Him. And even if I don't ask Him, He is working for my good, waiting for me to need Him, to want Him, to invite Him in. Any of my pain and sorrow I offer Him, He transforms into pearls of great beauty. Like the oyster, I am learning to feel whatever is stuck in me -- the joys and pains -- and let them transform. I am still me, still Stephanie, and always will be, but the pearls of wisdom, of growth, and faith are my gifts to share with the world in my work, my play, my actions, and even my protection. All these gifts come from God, and it is to Him that I offer them. It does me no good to have them, and keep them clenched tightly in my hands.

into an embrace

As I walked into the church this morning for mass, I was struck with an urge to run. A strong desire to run laps in the aisles. To become breathless in the presence of the Lord. I knelt and in my heart ran to the Father instead.
"Lord, all I want in this moment is to run, full throttle, into your outstretched arms, where you would catch me up, spin around and hold me in your embrace."
"Come," he said, and stretched toward me.
As I felt his arms around me, his face in my neck, I rested my head on his, eyes closed to take in every sensation available - the scent of heaven, the warmth of him against me, the gentle strength of his arms wrapped around me, the sound of our breathing, the beat of my heart, and the softness of the air surrounding us. With my eyes closed I could see nothing but my own smile, my own face, framed by an unmistakable aura of love. Of Love and peace and promise.
"Thank you. How did you know?" I asked, without moving a muscle.
"You are mine. I always know. I am always here, right here, for you." He held me closer as the bell rang to begin.
Once before I felt an urge to run while at mass, and that time I did fairly fly out of the church as soon as the last person was out of my way. Today I realize it was an invitation that I misinterpreted. An invitation to spend all my energy and fall -- collapse -- into the arms of the One who has loved me since before time existed. He asks me to run to him in my pain and in my joy; when I feel confident and when I feel lost. All simply because I am. And he is.
God is.
Comfort.

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.

friend and neighbor

A visit with a dear friend left me refreshed and reassured. As our conversation rolled over and over on my heart a few hours later, and as I once again thanked God for sending her my way unexpectedly, I realized just how thankful I truly am.
The meaning of true friendship is pretty deep. And complicated. As I tried to express my gratitude, as I tried to plumb it's depth, I thought about my relationship with Jesus. It has been quite a while since I found myself awake for no reason at 3am, other than being gently beckoned to time alone with Him. Sitting here in the dark with a blanket listening to the rain, I am again struck by the added dimension of simplicity.
Often as I pray, I hope for a response -- words, a touch, a feeling. None of my prayers go unanswered, I'm certain, but many times I'm on the wrong frequency and can't see, hear, or understand. This visit with my friend, I think, had elements of each. I learn and teach that we should strive to see Christ in others, and all too often that falls on my ears as direction for looking past undesirable traits. If I am to see Christ in my neighbor, that should include those I already love, respect, and care for! Obvious, maybe; but that response I long for today came in a very human person.
I wasn't expecting that.
Lightning and thunder and sleepiness are creeping into this time. And comfort and peace and a knowledge that tomorrow is today. I have friends who bear Christ to me, and a friend in Christ who strengthens me. All is well.

ears of my heart

For the second time this week, I've been racked with silent sobs at daily Mass. Mind you, it's Tuesday.

Neither time has it been about the Message in the Book as much as it has been a message to my heart. One that is less in words as it is in feeling. Less decipherable than knowable.

And yet I have very little idea what it could be.
Unable even to recite the words of the Lord's Prayer for the emotion, and instead being enveloped in the words as they are spoken around me, feeling simultaneously confused and grateful, I know something is there, is coming, is so very near. I know Someone is standing beside me.

And the thought of it is overwhelming.

And the silent sobs come. I let them.

Mind you, it's Tuesday.

three quiet visits

Three times today I sat and visited with Jesus, in three different places; two chapels and a church. And I learned for myself something that we tell the kids all the time: His presence is the same everywhere.

Not long ago, I had a really hard time praying. I couldn't figure out if it was Him or if it was me. If I was trying too hard, or not hard enough. If I needed to go, or if I needed to stay. I tried changing things up by picking different prayers, and even changing some spaces. Nothing seemed to help, but I kept trying, asking, searching.

Today's visits were kind of the opposite. The grand total of about 45 minutes felt very much like a continued conversation - the kind you have with any friend you might see here and there throughout the day. All of them were unplanned, for the most part, which made the encounters that much sweeter.

I'm still smiling.