my role model

A few weeks ago, I was asked "Who is your role model? What inspires you about this person?" I was in a bit of a rough place, and feeling let down by a whole lot of people I always thought 'should' be in the position of role modeling. I was set to respond with "It depends on the day" or "I don't have one. I prefer to model myself after attributes rather than people." The truth is, what I wanted to say is that I avoid letting anyone into that position now so they cannot disappoint or hurt me. The question was part of a survey I had to do - it was not optional - and there was no reason to say anything on it that wasn't the absolute truth. But, despite the truth in what I wanted to say, I knew, deep down, that it was temporary; the way that moment in time was shining on me. Or raining on me, I suppose.

I stepped away from my computer and thought about all the people I love, and who love me; my family of the heart, and my kids.Can a role model be a regular person? How could I have forgotten that? How could I have forgotten that the best role models are the ones that are right there, showing themselves - their true selves - in little ways. The people that had hurt me so much hadn't, really. I mean, yes, they did, but in the long run - a year, a decade, even a month down the road - the ways they had disappointed me would be long gone; the hurt healed over into a golden scar, strengthening the once broken parts of my heart. I considered who, really, was a role model to me, and how I could answer the question honestly. Truly honestly. An answer that would hold true in the future (days later, when discussing it, or a decade later, when I reflected on it), as well as the past. Was there anyone? Had I ever really let anyone be a role model? Of course. This is my response:

My dad. He could befriend anyone, in any situation. Along the way, he would find the best in people; everyone was his favorite. And he made that believable. From his example, I have learned that everyone has some gift to share, and I try to remember that, even with unpleasant interactions. His legacy to me is an admiration of the human spirit.

Today is Dad's birthday. Today marks ten years of no Happy Birthday phone calls. No left arm hugs. No coffee in pajamas all morning, until it's time to get dressed so we can have lunch and talk some more. No last glass of wine after lights out. I wish sometimes I had asked him what gift it is that he saw that I had to share. I wish sometimes that I had told him about my hurts, more about my joys, my dreams. I never asked him for real reasons on some things, like why he discouraged me from being a helicopter pilot, or going to the West Coast for college. I know the reasons he told me at the time, but I also know there was more behind it. The truth is, despite all the talking we did, and the love we shared, I didn't want him to know me that well. I was afraid, and I'm only beginning to learn what I was afraid of. The truth is, even as a little girl, I was already broken, and I really didn't want to know, or face, that he was, too, in some way. I didn't want that in common with him. The truth is, he's the reason I stayed. The reason I stayed at home, the reason I stayed in my marriage, the reason I stayed with at least a couple of jobs. I can't (yet) explain how he was, because I don't (yet) have the words. But I now know that to be truth. I love him for it. And I also wish I could talk it out with him, because it only makes so much sense, then it falls off into some realm I don't want to visit alone.

Another one of the questions on that survey was about a desert island:

If you were shipwrecked and stranded on an island without any supplies, fellow humans, etc., what do you do first? Why?
Cry, because I’ve never even considered learning how to build a fire without matches, and I know fire is the best way to protect myself from wild animals, prepare food to eat, and signal for help. Then I would pull myself together and explore. 

At the discussion afterward, we talked about sushi. In another conversation, my therapist said he knew there was something else I would do before I cried, because I am me. He said I would realize and be thankful that I am alive. And it clicked: I'm a survivor. The legacy of admiration for the human spirit is related to being a survivor. Dad taught me to survive. And from that survival, I am learning to thrive.

As I write this, the Morning Doves have returned. Dad used to whistle the Morning Dove's call, and always as a kid, because of the sound, I was convinced they were called Mourning Doves. Hearing them today is a gift from him, from Him. One year they nested in the crook of the tree right outside the window, and the boys and I watched them each day, sitting on eggs and staring at us. I like to think Dad watches over us, but I also hope that's not all he does. I miss him. I love him. And I'm grateful for all he taught me, and even the things he didn't, because they make him all the more real to me. Happy Birthday, Dad. I know you would understand.

motivated by purpose

I know what motivates me. This is exciting because yesterday I was stumped and asked for some thoughts on how to answer the question. Lots of great thoughts and ideas were offered, and I tucked it all in the back of my mind for pondering. My brand of pondering tends to let the thoughts alone back there to work things out a little with others, and I let them come out when they are ready. Possibly because some of those ideas challenged me - something I've been missing in my life for a while - the creative part of my mind seems to have jumped in to assist. I digress....

Today I was asked to take an assessment as part of an application process. Fairly similar to one I completed a few months ago for another company, as I answered the questions I thought about my verbal response to the results when the time comes, since I was unprepared the last time. Many of the questions lacked context that could change my answer dramatically, and I made mental notes of them, more for my own analysis later than anything else. Since I spent that 40 minutes essentially preparing for an interview question or two, the motivation question came to mind. "What does motivate me?" I asked myself as I curled up with a cup of hot chocolate. I closed my eyes and chuckled. One of my friends said yesterday that there are only two real motivators: Love and fear. When the hiring manager asked, my first thought was to say, "Well, it's not fear!" But I didn't know what it was. Then the images came to me.

Faces filled with gratitude. With understanding, new found knowledge. Delighted at having a new idea, a new skill, a new future. Some were faces of people I'd actually met, worked with, or encountered. Others were strangers from ads or marketing materials, but not models or actors; actual delighted people. Still others were faces I've not yet seen, made up in my imagination years ago or just now it's hard to say, but the answer was clear. I'm motivated by helping others, I thought, but realized there's more to it than that. All of it is wrapped up in my first memory of life goals in addition to being a mom. I then remembered details of my dream of having a job that required me to wear a hat and carry a clipboard - a cap, a hardhat, a uniform hat of some kind - and that my mother was mortified by the thought. (Which amused me as much tonight as it did back then!) But it's what I always wanted to do; that much I remembered vividly as I thought.

One Christmas while I was in high school, I read in the paper about the Arctic League and asked my dad if we could help. At the time, I was surprised at how readily he agreed (as a mom and former youth minister, I now know that if a kid asks to do something like that, you make it possible!) and on Christmas morning, we got up at some ungodly hour to drive a half hour to the warehouse and stand in a tremendous line in the cold and snow, and it was so worth it. The world was so quiet, between the hour, the darkness, the foot or so of snow everywhere, the hats, scarves, mittens and down enveloping all the volunteers. It was Christmas morning, but even more magical than usual, because we were going to be Santa. I was awed, touched, humbled. The line moved quickly, efficiently, and cheerfully, with hot chocolate handed out while we waited, maybe cookies, some friendly small talk among strangers. At the head of the line, we were given our deliveries and our map: 5 bags of treasures to deliver to areas I didn't even know existed. Dad found each address expertly, and together we would take the bag to the door, knocking quietly as we were instructed, so the sleeping children would have no idea we'd been there. I was profoundly affected that early, early morning by the faces of each person answering the door. No words were spoken, other than a whispered "Merry Christmas" and the corresponding "Thank you." But the faces. A picture may speak 1,000 words, but those faces, those eyes, they spoke ever so much more. Shortly thereafter I began looking into the Make-a-Wish Foundation and Habitat for Humanity, and even the Peace Corps. For reasons I neither remember the details of nor understood even at the time, I was discouraged from pursuing careers in such organizations.

But I held tightly to the tail end of the dream, like the end of a kite string.

It all came back to me tonight in that question: "What does motivate me." Love, yes; not fear. Good, that was cleared up. Helping people, yes; but in what context? Can sales goals motivate me, given the right argument of helping someone? Maybe - if some donation to a cause I believe in is involved, perhaps. I knew there was more brewing. What did all those faces that played like a movie in my mind have in common - in a concise, interview answer way? What did the jobs that meant the most to me have in common that I saw in those faces? And how did that relate to the jobs that I didn't like so well - what was missing in them?

And I realized the Love that motivates me is Purpose. Habitat, Wishes, Arctic League, youth ministry, Reading with the Lions, teaching dance and making choreography -- all of them gave me, or have inherent in them, a sense of purpose; a specific goal of helping people with something in particular. That's what motivates me: knowing without a doubt that the intent of the job is to help someone in some defined way, with a project flow to make it happen. I'm motivated by purpose that allows my process-oriented mind to get creative and find the map, and bring life to the journey. Because life is about the journey; the journey is the purpose, and the purpose is Love.

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?

dreambank

I had a dream I keep thinking about, wondering about. I keep wanting to ask, but I don't know who to ask. It's a very strong desire to understand -- much more so than the usual when I dream, so I wonder if the desire to understand is related to the meaning of the dream itself.

I was at an event. Something with many people, some of whom I knew casually, and some of whom I did not know at all. But there were also some people I knew very well -- a handful -- and each of them had asked specifically if I would be there, saying they wanted to talk with me, either to catch up after an absence, or to cover specific information. I was happy to be there (if you know me well, you know that alone is a tad odd), and looking forward to socializing, catching up, and discussing with my friends -- those who had asked for my presence. Consistently and repeatedly, these people were avoiding conversation with me in various ways. Sometimes they would approach me, stand with me, even hug me in greeting, but as soon as I spoke, they would walk away. Sometimes there was a direct, "Not now," spoken in lieu of greeting. I found myself confused, bewildered, hurt. 

I awoke profoundly affected, with a feeling of strong reality. I spent the day yesterday trying to convince myself that a dream is simply an unconscious way to let go of daytime woes, rather than a method of explaining problems that need to be addressed. Half the difficulty for me is the specific people involved. Most of the time when these people -- or any people -- appear in my dreams, I may see faces, but really they don't look into my eyes to speak to me. This time each one did just before they walked away from me, pointedly turning away from me to walk away.

There are some strong frustrations in my waking life at the moment. Working my way through them is not going as smoothly as I'd like, and in fact, I am actively avoiding speaking about some of them, because I don't know where to turn. Or maybe I don't want to. Maybe these people are the ones I need to address. Or perhaps they are the ones I'm trying to engage, but I shouldn't be. That last possibility is what has me most perplexed -- it keeps coming back to me, almost as if it's written on paper in front of me. (The blank paper from so long ago? I've been waiting for something to be written upon it...) Perplexing and a bit painful. These are people I've counted on, shared with, cried for.

Can a season end for an entire group at one time? Where else do I turn?

my next life

"In my next life...." So goes the beginning of an ongoing joke with a friend. My line, which comes next, begins with "You would hate that because...." I think sometimes about what things I could have done with this life (lawyer, interpreter, world traveller) and can even pinpoint the moment each of those dreams was defeated. And a couple of second chances that were offered and why they were ignored. Or denied.

Today I found myself thinking, "In my next life...," but there was no one there to counter. And what I was thinking of would make me miserable in short order! I thought I'd like to be one of those call center people - the outsourced ones. Even one of the scam computer ones that call all the time lately. I had to tell myself I would hate it. (I was not hard to convince. Then again, neither is my friend.)

I began to wonder what brought this on today. Probably a combination of a training I attended this morning (mandated reporter), lunch conversation afterward, and some medical ethics in a class I'm taking. I hunger for the mental exercise involved in understanding and interpreting 'legalese' (or is that interpreting and understanding?) and social science language. I thirst for the discussion, debate and digging with others that follows. I would love to do that all day.

Or in my next life have no thinking to do at all.

Lately I seem to be in the middle. Too much to think about, too many questions unanswered, and nowhere to go with it. And that's just the more concrete work related stuff. Beyond that is the deeper, more life related things that come to mind when I slow down and pray. I need some depth. Those I once counted on for real conversation are too busy, or have moved on. My season seems to be changing; I'm waiting to be plucked off a branch. I'm not alone, but I am lonely.

You might say my next life thoughts are really a reflection of my regrets, but I think they are really places that would make where I am now look more appealing. You might also say that I'm not enjoying or living the life I do have. In that assumption you would be wrong. I love what I'm doing, and I love my life. I have reasonable frustrations; human feelings. And I express them at times. Another human thing. My need for depth stems from my inability or fear of finding it, if I am completely honest. I need to dive below the superficial as much as I need others around me to do so.

It's hard to be that vulnerable.

Really hard.

But it's what I need to do; to find. Otherwise I may end up where my wishes take me rather than where I belong.

joy and sorrow

 Then a woman said, "Speak to us of Joy and Sorrow."       And he answered:       Your joy is your sorrow unmasked.       And the selfsame well from which your laughter rises was oftentimes filled with your tears.       And how else can it be?       The deeper that sorrow carves into your being, the more joy you can contain.       Is not the cup that hold your wine the very cup that was burned in the potter's oven?       And is not the lute that soothes your spirit, the very wood that was hollowed with knives?      When you are joyous, look deep into your heart and you shall find it is only that which has given you sorrow that is giving you joy.       When you are sorrowful look again in your heart, and you shall see that in truth you are weeping for that which has been your delight.       Some of you say, "Joy is greater than sorrow," and others say, "Nay, sorrow is the greater."       But I say unto you, they are inseparable.       Together they come, and when one sits alone with you at your board, remember that the other is asleep upon your bed.       Verily you are suspended like scales between your sorrow and your joy.      Only when you are empty are you at standstill and balanced.       When the treasure-keeper lifts you to weigh his gold and his silver, needs must your joy or your sorrow rise or fall. ~Khalil Gibran, The Prophet

This is reflective of a conversation today. Joy and sorrow are so tightly intermingled, so woven together. Sometimes that idea is soothing, but other times painful, uncomfortable, or downright frightening. There is so much about the connection between joy and sorrow that has been on my mind most of my life, it seems. 

Yet the sorrow we talked about today isn't anything I can fathom. At one point, I said that I know what I would think, where I could have identified some of my pain, if it were me. But at the same time, we both knew, very well, that it wasn't. Harder still, though we both wanted to talk about it with each other, there was something very specific that got in the way -- in both directions. Oddly, ironically, what got in the way is the same thing that led me to the passage above: faith. More specifically, my faith. 

Hearing part of this passage this evening, I immediately thought of my friend. Of her pain, her sorrow, her sharing today. And I also thought of the immense joy that is a huge part of who she is as a woman, as a friend, as a sister. I learned so much from her today as we talked. I could relate to so much of what hurts, but not exactly, and that is okay. There are no platitudes that can help ease her suffering. I can't make any of it better, and we both know that. But I can continue to do what I've been doing for her: I can pray. Where she is afraid, I can pray. When she is angry, I can pray. In her sorrow and in her joy, I can offer prayer for her, because I know she can't right now. I know because she told me. I know because I've been there.

I firmly believe we are all here as people of faith to carry each other through from time to time. Praying and praising is sometimes easy, understandable and free. Other times, it feels pointless, useless, exhausting. When our self-sufficiency melts away into nothingness, and we feel empty inside, sometimes we can pray on our own.....but mostly, for me, the best thing I can find to be a blessing is the knowledge that someone else is doing my praying for me; bending God's ear on my behalf. He's always there, even when we can't feel His presence -- or when we don't really want to admit that we don't want to feel it. He's there. He asks for us, calls us, opens His arms to hold us. 

I wish the wishes could come true. That the facts, the time, the events could be changed or modified, improved. But that's my broken, confused, human self wanting what I think would be best. It will all be as it should be, but for now, we pray and embrace through the now. 

no more onions

I have nothing against onions. In fact, I love onions. They are a key ingredient in so many of my favorite dishes. Well made, batter dipped onion rings, Vidalias in a salad with tomatoes and cucumbers, grilled on a burger, raw on a dog -- what's not to love about onions?!

I, however, am not an onion. Like so many things, this has been tumbling around in my mind for a while now. The first time I heard that something, or someone, was "like an onion: you have to go layer by layer," I thought it a clever analogy. Perhaps I've heard it one too many times. Here's the thing, when my therapist and I are working on developing a strategy for dealing with a patterned behavioral response, I get that the situation is, indeed, like an onion. We do peel back layer after layer of the problem: the trigger, the emotional response, the physical response (if there is one), the different perspectives of a memory or a recent event. In the end, though the response may be modified, the situation is still what it is. It is still an onion.

No matter how many layers one peels off an onion, at the center, one will find nothing but an onion.

One day at work, an office mate mentioned how much she hates going to conferences and having a facilitator ask, "Please introduce yourself with your name, your favorite flower, and how it describes you." We agreed it's the on the spot thinking about how a flower describes a person that annoyed us. [I knew then that I loved this woman especially because of her dislike of stupid ice breakers.] A few days later, I was thinking about that discussion while I spent ten hours in the car travelling to Georgia. I wondered what flower I would say was my favorite. I know full well what flower is my favorite. but what would I say when put on the spot? Lilacs are my favorite, simply because I like the way they smell, but that certainly has nothing to do with me as a person! I don't always like the way I smell, know what I mean?

As I drove, I thought that I would likely say something like "Azalea -- or better, rhododendron -- (because it was the first one I thought of) because  I'm not sure how to spell it," and then feel like an idiot for the rest of the conference, missing much of the content of what I went there to hear or learn.* Then I wondered why. Why would I feel like an idiot? Why does the reason have to make sense if the question doesn't in the first place? What would have happened had I answered honestly all those times in school, instead of giving the response I thought I was supposed to? Who would I be today?

Somewhere along the line, it occurred to me that an artichoke is a flower. Most people think of it as a vegetable, but it's really a flower. And not an onion. Being prepared to answer a question that makes no sense in the first place is a really important skill, right? If nothing else, it gave me something to think about on my drive.

I am not an onion, I am an artichoke. When you take the time to patiently and painstakingly peel off the layers of spiny bracts of the artichoke, you come to something else: the heart. If you take the time to peel back the layers of me, the prickly, stiff, protective layers of me, you will find a soft and very sensitive heart. But even the heart of the artichoke has some bristles on the top when you first get there - the choke. My heart is the same -- unless you work for it, you may never get past that one last protective layer on my heart, my choke. I am not an onion. Past all those layers, you will not find a smaller version of what you started with. Instead, you will find compassion, generosity, unbridled joy, and a fierce loyalty - the real me. If you find that, and then behave badly, though, I will bloom into the thistle of which the artichoke is a bud.

My name is Stephanie, and I would say I'm an artichoke because I have many layers. I am not an onion, although I love them.




http://www.gardenbetty.com/2013/06/anatomy-of-an-artichoke/


*It occurs to me just now that perhaps such distraction is the reason for this kind of question in the first place. Maybe everyone spends the rest of the time second-guessing their choice and reason, so the content needn't be quite up to snuff. hmmmmm.....

sheep stuff

The other day, while going through a box of "mystery stuff" by my desk, I came across a meditation on the lost sheep. It began by describing a hole in the fence that the one sheep wandered through, curious and a bit oblivious of the dangers. Presently, the shepherd went through the same hole in the fence, leaving 99 sheep inside, and also leaving the hole in the fence. After some time of searching, the shepherd finds the one sheep, and they return to the sheepfold, but the shepherd does not mend the fence.

The first questions on the meditation were the usual type, about the one who wandered off. But then there were questions about the 99. How did they feel about being left on their own? Why didn't they just follow the shepherd through the hole? How did they feel about the one returning to them?

Time and again I've heard the parable of the lost sheep, and time and again I've heard that each of us is the lost sheep. This meditation, however, puts us also in the position of the 'unlost,' of those who haven't strayed, who have been trusted to stay home without supervision. Sometimes a shifted focus, a different angle, makes a huge difference in reception, as well as perception.

That afternoon, putting myself with the 99 for the first time, I wondered about my own recent feelings of being somewhat lost while at the same time being immersed. I've been confused at the juxtaposition. As I sat on the floor with that paper in my hand, I wondered if those 99 sheep felt concern when their shepherd left them - concern that they didn't know what would come next, if he would be back, if they could take care of themselves - or if they confidently continued with their daily sheep business without even noticing he was gone. Or something in between. I pictured 99 sheep on a hillside - a large number of them together in some centralized location, some smaller groups, and the occasional lone sheep, slightly apart from the others, but near enough that inclusion was obvious. Each with their own thoughts, their own level of experience and confidence. Where did I fit?

A picture really can convey 1,000 words. Looking at the hillside of sheep, I realized that even when I feel lost, I'm not necessarily the sheep that found the hole in the fence. I can be any of those 99 and still wonder where I am. It's not about my physical, emotional, or spiritual location. Rather, my focus, my view, my willingness to trust my shepherd - or my confidence in his trust in me! - is what matters. In that picture I saw that sometimes the shepherd needs to trust that the majority of the sheep will simply stay put. The key then is whether they do! And there may be times when staying in one place, continuing to do what has become routine (because I don't know what else to do), even when it feels less than productive, is the only thing to do.

There is joy in being found. And there is joy in the return. There is joy for all.  

dig it up

Have you ever had questions? How about this, did you ever wonder if there are answers to your questions? And how often have you felt like there should be more you could learn - about another, yourself, your faith, your world?
From time to time I get bogged down by my questions. They fill my notebook, and draw my focus. I would say that I've come to realize they distract me, but that wouldn't be entirely true. To be honest, I can't remember not knowing that I fixate on a question, a problem, an idea, when something else in my life is out of whack. A problem with fixating is that it makes interactions difficult for me.
The first step is admitting there's a problem, right? One problem leads to the other, but they each feed the other. One possible solution: finding people with questions - and answers - who want to share. Talking about this with someone the other day, we referred to it as a 'digging club.' Today, sitting in a different office, in the middle of another thought, I realized this group would be new friends; friends on a different level.
As humans, we're designed to "learn on multiple levels," I was told today. That's when it clicked: I need to learn. I want to learn. I love to learn. Is this what's off kilter? Is that how I can readjust? Or is it just a first step?
"Know anyone else with a shovel?" I'm on the lookout. Lately I've heard and read over and over that learning, growing, answering questions, is meant to be done in groups. Self study is okay, but "it'll take much longer."
Time to find some fellow diggers.

showing up

God shows up. He really does. For the past couple of months, I've been having an internal battle where it comes to my faith. Not constant, and not fierce, but there have been plenty of times when I've felt like I was going through the motions of work, prayer, love, life in general. Not knowing what to do, how to break out of that feeling (it scared me, quite frankly), I simply tried harder to pray. "Lord, what do I need to do now?" Actually, I asked kind of frantically, and often, but rarely when I had any time to sit and listen. Part of the problem was that I simply didn't feel like I had time to sit and listen, or sit and talk, or sit. At the same time, I was spending quite a bit of time goofing off on my smartphone; isolating myself with some intention of insulating myself. I would rather have been reading, studying, 'interfacing' with my husband, my friends, my kids.*

One day, feeling truly disconnected from not only God but myself, I sent a text to a dear and wonderful friend who lives just far enough away that I couldn't say, "Hey, can I come over?" but who is sweet enough to 'talk' when I need to. I took a chance, and told her what was going on. Poured my heart out (as much as one can in a couple short text messages) and waited for a response. And waited. And waited. Just after I sent a followup text saying something along the lines of realizing there was likely now no basis for our friendship, she got back to me. Someone had come to the door and she couldn't respond right away. Relief doesn't begin to describe what washed over me. We chatted a bit, and I felt better, not only because of what she had to say, but also because I reached out. Past where I wanted or intended to. And the response was love.

Last weekend, there was a gospel in which Jesus' family thought he was a little nuts. Sipping coffee Saturday morning, I read the words from Mark, laughed right out loud, and told God that I could relate. I still imagine his relatives and their actions and reactions. I figure it was likely those on Mary's side -- the same crowd that had trouble with Zechariah and Elizabeth naming their son (Jesus' cousin) John, since it wasn't a family name. I can see Elizabeth rolling her eyes at them, and turning to Mary, shaking her head, both women knowing that Jesus was going to do whatever he needed to do. None of this is based on anything but my imagination, but it helps to make the image real sometimes, familiar. I poured my heart out about my doubts, my fears, my dreams, my questions. It felt really good, but I also felt funny about it, like it was somehow inappropriate, out of line. I had surprised myself with my honesty, and didn't know what to do about it. So, I did what I do when I figure I might be about to get in trouble: I told a person, and then another person.

What I found in each case was that no one was shocked. None of these people said they thought I was crazy, or wrong, or anything I expected. And neither did God. In fact, since then, he has methodically responded to each of my doubts and fears, to each of my frustrations, gently showing me that he was listening and hearing my cries. And that he appreciated my honesty -- finally.

The two experiences are connected, and closely so. The first time, I had this great pause before a response, and in that time, which was a gift, I was able to really experience what it felt like to be vulnerable in my faith. Frankly, it was really uncomfortable! But in all that time, not once did I second guess my feelings. I wondered if it had been wise to share them via text message rather than face to face, but I knew, no matter what the outcome, I had told the truth about myself: who I was, where I was, where I wished and hoped I could be. And my friend's response came out of love, and full of love. Tender love. Last week, I knew not only that I was being honest, but that I really had to share, to open myself to my own community, to allow my friends to be a part of my journey. The reason for that may become even clearer, but I do know that it's related to my tendency to turn in. I also know it's related to making magic happen.

Last fall, I went to a training related to my job, and a presenter was talking about taking risks in order to get our point across in dealing with teens. He drew a simple Venn diagram with two circles -- one very small, labeled 'comfort zone,' and the other larger and completely separate, labeled 'where the magic happens.' I brought it home, used it a couple of times in meetings, and gave then gave it to my pastor, who added a couple of points. The whole diagram now shows exactly what this whole sharing of myself thing felt like -- feels like, because it's not meant to end anytime soon. With God's grace, I can face the fear associated with vulnerability: with people, yes, but more importantly, with God himself.

This morning, I wondered in my prayer about sharing that which God already knows about me. He knows my heart, so why do I really need to tell him what's scaring me, frustrating me, irking me? It didn't take long for me to realize that sharing it with Him, as aloud as my praying happens to be [which depends on how alone I am in the room....] puts me in a place of being honest with myself. That's something that is harder than I had previously thought. It finally occurred to me what a bit of dying to self means. For me, right now, it means letting go of my self-judgments and allowing for my mistakes, my questions, and even my demands to be truly mine, which doesn't mean that I expect any kind of response or resolution. On the contrary, it means I don't need to expect anything at all -- I can voice them, and let them hang in the air between me and God, and what happens with them, happens. I can move forward, through the place where I am afraid, to where the miracles happen. And they happen every day, if we look for them. If we just show up where we are meant to be.



*none of whom were being actively ignored -- they had their own activities out of the house, so I was alone in all this isolating time. Hold the bus: I can't honestly say that about my friends. I must confess that I was not even trying to connect with them.

growing closer

Sitting on a rock by a stream this morning, shoulder to shoulder with a friend, both of us in jeans and jerseys and tossing pieces of stick into the water, I shared my heart.  What was there was hard to share. I thought it would, at best, hurt my friend's feelings, and at worst, wreck our friendship completely. Instead the response my friend gave was a simple, "yeah, I know." Relieved but still shaken from sharing, I asked how it could be okay, why there was no anger, no yelling, no judgement. In response, "you are where you should be."

This is how it goes sometimes when I pray, especially when I have something difficult to share. I find myself sitting alongside Jesus, often on a boulder-like rock, our feet off the ground, and the sun on our backs, usually shoulder to shoulder, as close friends often are. I don't get to see his face, but I do feel his warmth.
Through today's prayer, and the subsequent flow of thoughts throughout the morning, I kept remembering that I need to work on having more such conversations with people. Especially when the subjects are hard, like today's. Those human interactions help me to know myself, so in turn I can know Christ. That's hard for me. Something that makes me worry I might repel Jesus sure isn't something I'm going to rush to tell a person! And yet when I shared the same sentiments with a person today, and then another, the responses were not that much different from his. The responses I feared turned out to be related to my own self-judgement. No big surprise there, but I have made great strides in that area. One day I hope to find I'm only doing a quick analysis, but for now, steps in the right direction are enough.
I know there's something missing; something that will be leading to more difficult conversations about faith and direction. And I know there will have to be people involved in them, too. They can't all happen in some supernatural place by a perfectly picturesque stream. And not all of them will end well. But, so far the Lord's been gentle with me, leading me to those who are willing and/or able to hear my heart in my words. 
Lord, I need You. Friends, I need you. I am blessed to have you.

albatross or sparrow

Sometimes there are things that just don't matter. And sometimes there are things that really matter a great deal. And sometimes it's hard to tell where the line is. And then there are the times when one wonders how to tell when crossing that line, or even traveling close to it, is more important than any promises made.
What's particularly difficult is when the persons who might normally have been the obvious choices for hashing out the answers are integral parts of the question.
And then there's the unfortunate fact of 'timing.'
Here I am, working at balancing responsibilities, growing in faith and love, and changing the way I look at myself (all quite related), and suddenly finding myself trying to decide if this is an albatross or a sparrow on my shoulder. Frankly, I'm a little afraid to look, and as a result, in not knowing, the albatross wins. The question is, what to do? The subsequent question (and at least as important) is, does it really need to be recognized? Part of me figures that for my own peace of mind, yes, and look it in the eye. Another part of me says that it'll fly the coop on its own if I just let it go. But my heart wonders if I can count on that - or if facing it is worth whatever the price may be.
Lord, how I need you.

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?

there you are

Earlier this week, plagued with vocal chords I had pushed far beyond their limits, I had to spend the day in silence. Or my best attempt at same. Everyone was gone for the day, to work or to school, and I was home alone. Given the fact that the strain of speaking made me a bit lightheaded, it would stand to reason that my own silence would be welcome. It turns out, when I am home alone, I speak aloud to myself more than I realized!

In between the squeaks and honks I emitted, I did manage to consider the day a silent retreat of sorts. I cleaned our spare room, top to bottom, and prayed some, meditating on the blessings of my usual every day.

The past few weeks have not been easy. There are quite a few things weighing on my mind, my heart. I found myself once again wishing for a cup of coffee with my dad. That became a little prayer: "Lord, please, I just want to have a little talk with Dad. I want to know what he'd tell me. I want, more than anything, to feel his hug."

Not ten minutes later, vacuuming under the dresser, I found one of my favorite pictures from our wedding day: me pinning Dad's corsage to his lapel. I hadn't even realized it had fallen down to the floor. I smiled, and silently thanked God and Dad for being in that moment. Later that day, and into the next, I prayed again that Dad might be near me. Last night, after a particularly tough discussion with two friends, I asked that we pray together. When we finished, one of them started singing. "A-amen. A-amen."

I burst into tears.

Dad was there in that moment. She had no idea that he sang that when he finished praying in a group. Every time. She had no idea that I'd been looking for him. I shared with them my grateful heart, and we went home. Late this afternoon, I got a phone call that led to an unexpected conversation that sounded oddly like coffee with Dad. As I hung up, I thanked God for answering such a small prayer. Talking with Dad was never about the answers. He had a way of leaving more questions on the table than answers, and really, that was the best part.

And, as it turns out, was a masterful lesson in faith.

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.

be strong, be courageous

Just what does courage mean? Does it mean not having that heart-racing, hand shaking, blood chilling feeling when faced with something that is wrong, or dangerous? Or when I know I need to stand up for myself, or someone else who needs a voice?

Or does courage mean that despite the tremors and feelings of faintness, I still speak, stand, act?

Will I ever have courage? Do I have it and just not know?

you may not know

I finally managed to come up with 10.....

1. I really miss wearing contacts.

2. My glasses are always filthy -- from tears on the inside of them, and from who knows what on the outside.

3. I've never needed a passport. And that makes me a little bit sad.

4. When Dad died, I was in the middle of choreographing a dance for my grandmother. I promised at his funeral to make one for him, but never did. All of it was in me, and I still watch it in my head, sometimes.

5. I used to want a tattoo. The argument with myself over visible vs hidden got to be unwinable, so it'll likely never happen.

6. I'm still trying to figure out what else I want to be when I grow up--I'm closer, but still not there.

7. In high school, I wanted to major in International Law and Languages, and work at the UN. My guidance counselor talked me out of that, and every one of my dream jobs. My favorite class at college was Hospitality Law. Go figure!

8. Zip lines are my favorite way to fly.

9. Favorite place I have ever been is Hawaii. Arizona is a close second. St George Island, Florida, is third.

10. My only real phobia is auditioning, which is related to being talked out of dream jobs when I was 17.

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.