days and nights

Not terribly long ago, I would come home and remember Sunday nights spent lazily at home, finishing whatever chores or projects pushed off to the end of the weekend. I wondered how many Sundays in a row it would take before I felt like I needed a break. Sunday after Sunday I wondered; Thursday after planning meeting Thursday, I did the same. And yet, each meeting refreshed and rejuvenated me; gave me new purpose, direction, love for the teens we were working with, for. Without realizing it, Sunday has become something other than routine. It's become real. Real worship, real teaching, real learning, real conversation. Real friendship.

Staying home with our firstborn, there were times when I wondered about the return on investment involved in being Momma. Having no family around, and only having lived in the area a very short time when he was born, there were many, many long and quiet - often lonely - hours spent on long walks in the woods, sitting on the floor, or rocking him to sleep. In short, lots of time to think and wonder. I remember one day when I was sick, but still Momming, as Moms do the world over, and he began to sing to me. The words I sang to him as he fell asleep were coming back to me, and I realized the ROI is more than just intangible - it's priceless.

Lately I've felt that same awe and wonder when I watch and listen to our kids. Only they really are hardly kids any longer. They are men and near men, and what they share of their hearts amazes me. The fact that I've been around to watch them grow and develop into the fine young men they are is humbling and thrilling, awesome and amazing. That they share with me, that I have the opportunity to learn who they are (from them!), that I can enjoy their company simply because they are is sometimes overwhelming. In all honesty, they have molded me far more than I could ever have molded them. We listen to each other. We've all grown. And I'm gratefully speechless.

at your feet

There are two pumpkin pies in the oven. Last week in our CSA share, we found a pie pumpkin, and I determined I was going to give this a go. They smell fantastic, but I am nervously checking on the crust periodically. God did not gift me with crust crimping skills, or with much luck when it comes to one crust pies not burning. We'll see, but I am pretty excited about them. Baking them has been an all day process, interspersed with some other food preparation -- including cooling time after roasting the pumpkin.

When I went to bed last night, my plan for the day was all laid out. But I woke this morning with a scratchy throat and a drippy nose. Not terrible, but enough to make me happy that I hadn't planned on going in to work and wondering if the cooking and baking would get done. I kept the day to just those activities, foregoing other errands I had been adding to my list. At lunchtime, I made some tea, intending to rest up a bit  by praying and doing some scripture homework before continuing with the pie. Before I could even begin, our youngest came home for lunch. A quick visit later, I wondered if I should just get the pies in the oven before I went up to finish what I hadn't even started. "No," I told myself, "sit down and rest a bit."

Of all the stories in the Bible that strike a chord with me, there is one in particular that for a long time gave me more discomfort than comfort. It took me a really long time -- most of my life so far, actually -- to even begin to consider why. Today I wrote in my Sacred Space, "How fitting that I spent the morning 'doing' and almost let myself get distracted by more doing when I decided to sit, read, and pray! ...." Mary and Martha have been duking it out in my heart for years. At times I've wondered why Jesus was so hard on Martha, or so easy on Mary, or even paid any attention to either of them. I've wondered why Martha addressed her problem to Jesus, instead of to Mary directly. I've wondered why Mary doesn't even speak. A year or so ago, the debate came up again: in different places over the course of an entire week, I came across some mention of Mary and Martha and Jesus. Having no idea why the series of mentions, I kept it all in my pondering place. Weeks later, after an experience that clarified Mary's place in the story to me, I began to utter a promise each day. "I will sit at your feet and listen."

Although I say it every day, I know I am not very good at actually doing it. I sit sometimes. I listen sometimes. I don't always make a point of just sitting and listening with the intention of hearing the story, of sharing the moment, of being right there, of being. Many times, I sit to listen, to hear. Mary was doing more than that. Martha could possibly have heard what Jesus was saying while she went about her chores. Perhaps that was part of her frustration: Mary would have been able to hear as she walked about, doing while the sound of His voice carried through the house. What Martha missed was the experience of hearing. The subtle nuances of facial expression and body language that enhance or change the meaning of the words, even ever so slightly. The occasional eye contact that emphasizes a point. The silent shake of the head that signals another thought flitting through the speaker's mind. The responses of the others there listening as well. Martha may well have been able to hear the words, but Mary was there to experience the story. When I make a point to do more than simply listen, to focus on where I am and what I might hear, or say, I find that I often feel more. I pick up on little things I might have otherwise missed. When I make a point to listen, to experience in prayer, I find that I listen better and experience more in my life, with my family and my friends. I'm less distracted, less likely to find some thing to do.

I will. I will sit at your feet, and listen to your stories, to your voice, to you."

visiting the path

Something happened today that put me in a tailspin. It hurt. It kicked me in the ribs. It removed any chance of concentration from the moments afterward. It also showed me that I have, indeed, grown, learned, moved forward. With no idea how I was feeling, my first impulse was to talk to Jesus -- literally. Walking to the prayer path on the grounds of the church where I work, I talked to myself first, determining what my feelings were, and asking myself why each feeling came to mind. I listened to the responses as they came, even managing to dismiss one or two. "No, that's not really the reason I'm feeling this way. Try again." By the time I rested my head on Jesus's knee, I was able to identify just what I felt, what didn't feel right. I hurt. Bad. And I knew that it was only marginally related to the event that had transpired. What really hurt was deep down, far in the recesses of my heart, where I was bleeding. As I leaned on the statue, I prayed a deeply heartfelt prayer: I complained, I cried, I stomped my feet and said it wasn't fair, or right, or anything I wanted to deal with. But mostly I begged for help: "Hold me. Help me. Hear me. Love me." Turning to see the steeple of the church, I cried out, "This is my home! You are my God!"

Lately I've been asking the Lord to open my heart, to open me; I can see it happening when I close my eyes. I've been asking Mary to unravel the tangle of memories, fears, and pain inside. I've been asking, I guess, for clarity and vision. All of that praying on the path today,  -- where the sun didn't quite reach me, so the light breeze sliced my skin slightly -- stung me, yet comforted me. Lately in my asking, I've found that I feel more real, more honest in my words, my thanks, my pleas, more vulnerable. This relationship is deepening, becoming more comfortable and comforting. I stood there, tears running down my cheeks, still hurting, but keeping in mind things that my pastor, my therapist, my husband, my brother, my dearest friends have all told me -- about who I am, who they see. Most of all, I had in my mind, along with the hurt that doesn't just disappear with prayer (for me, just yet, anyway), the words of God, the glimpses He gives me of who I am, and who I am to be. I said the Lord's Prayer and walked back to the office and my work.

A couple of hours later, washing the dinner dishes, I realized I am now in a different place. Allowing myself to feel, to identify myself in the feelings, to pray and to cry brought with it the gift of passing through the pain, rather than holding it. The wound is still there, but no longer bleeding or as raw. Laughter with a friend at work this afternoon helped (in my estimation that 'laughter as medicine' thing is spot on!), as did sharing with key people. What made me see I was new? T-shirts. As I washed the dishes, I found myself wondering about, designing, requesting, utilizing T-shirts for an area of my work. I laughed right out loud, grateful for the epiphany. God is so very good, when we get out of His way, open the door, and invite Him in.

Isaiah 41:13

backleading....again

Today, while working on learning and getting comfortable with a tricky Foxtrot combination (though not beyond our skill level, we were repeatedly assured!), there were times when the steps, the motion, the fluidity just wasn't there. "I think that was me," I told my husband. "I'm not sure what I'm doing, but I think I'm off." Our instructor took my hand to lead me down the floor, and almost immediately told me (and everyone) that I was backleading; depending more on myself to get down the floor than on my partner. It's not a new problem or habit for me. In fact, it's rather familiar. Letting go a little made the combination flow better -- more fun and fluid for both of us.

I got back to the corner where we were starting our passes down the floor, and a classmate said, "It's all rather biblical." I agreed (it really, truly is) and took a quick stock of where I am, and why lately I've been feeling so 'independent' when we dance.

The truth is, how well I follow at dance class very closely corresponds to where I am in my heart and in my mind. And lately I've been working hard at mending, healing, becoming. And the road has not been smooth or easy. There's lots of skidding and jack-rabbit starts, lots of riding the brake, and wishing I could coast. I'm resisting, and although it seems to me that I'm the only one who could notice, it's glaringly obvious when I have a dance partner. This internal struggle, the fears related to it, and even the progress that I do see all combine to bind up some of the creativity that we are trying to unveil. Independence and resistance are more comfortable to me that I would like.

A couple of weeks ago, I was presented with an idea that is still radical to me: "You don't have to do this alone. You can, but it will take longer and will be harder. It's up to you." This was my therapist, encouraging me to seek out and trust further the people in my life that can help me to apply what I'm learning. Not only the skills, but the truth of who I am, in the eyes of others, and in the eyes of God. Almost immediately I shared the idea with a friend, and mulled it over. I don't have to do it alone. I can, but I don't have to. Realizing he was also talking about allowing God to work in my life didn't take long. Within hours of asking Him in, asking for continued guidance, support, help, little things began to happen that showed me who I could begin to lean on, to share with, the become with. Unexpected visits, encounters, messages each showed me the generous nature of God's love in my healing.

And yet I still resist some. A fearful, tearful meltdown on my kitchen floor. An emotional morning at work. A question of where I am on my journey. All related to resistance. "Just trust Him," I was told one night this week. I want to. I don't like to backlead. It takes the fun out of it, really, and removes a bit of the beauty and quite a bit of the magic. This week, when I did let go and trust, relaxing into the love of my Father, I was so truly blessed beyond my hopes and prayers. One would think that would be incentive enough to make leaning into that Love a habit, but fear and nerves prevail. Again. And I find myself dependent on me more than I intend.

The good thing is, I can feel that the dependence is ever so slightly less. I'm beginning, slowly, to see and feel a difference. In the meantime, I seem to wear my level of surrender in my dancing shoes, giving a barometer of my progress to my partner. Fortunately, he, too, is patient and kind.

after the fact

For twelve years, I wrote somewhere - in a journal or a note on Facebook or here - about 9/11, on 9/11. This year I did not. Not for any reason other than I didn't. I spent the day at work, doing what I (try to) do. I had a falling apart layer in the day that was painful, but necessary for some "stuff" I am working through, but even that had nothing to do with not writing.

Yesterday, a friend handed me a children's book. "Read this," she said. September 12: We knew everything would be all right. "Your everything will be all right," she told me as she hugged me. The book was written and illustrated by first grade students in Missouri, and was first printed in July 2002. It's adorable, but the book itself is not the point.

Before that day thirteen years ago, I had seen God at work in many ways, in many places, and I had thanked Him. From time to time I asked Him for stuff. Before that day, I had apprehension that kept me from being completely whole, and I knew it, but it was (in my mind) no big deal, just shyness or something like it. Before that day, I had never learned to lean on God, to ask for Him to be my strength, for Him to hold me, for Him to guide me.

On that day, once my family was all home, safe and under one roof, sleeping in their own beds, the bottom fell out of my heart. I dreamt each night of police coming to the door in the middle of the night for various reasons, alarms sounding in the distance warning of some threat, lights flashing outside my window. The fear that enveloped me was so intense, so complete, I had difficulty functioning. I found myself staring at the sky, not having realized how accustomed to the flight patterns over my house I had become. Although the quiet was something I would normally have relished, the empty skies became a roaring silence in my ears. I cried and trembled every morning when I awoke, tearing myself from my pillow only because our youngest son slept in a crib and could not get out himself.

I can't tell you how long this went on. I do know that the day it began to change was laundry day, and a beautiful, sunny and warm one at that. I was on the phone with my friend, Aunt B, one of the few people I'd told of my pain, my sorrow, my fear. She told me she had been repeating constantly the words "Thy will be done." She encouraged me to pray - something that had truly not occurred to me. I went outside with my basket of clean clothes and screamed it at the sky. Every time I went outside, I said it - softly under my breath, in my head, screamed at the top of my lungs, silently in my heart - until I could bring myself to say it upon waking.

Fitful sleep, terrible dreams, time to rise, "Thy will be done," tears and fear. Repeat.

Until the morning I woke, once again with tears on my cheeks, and heard the voice of God. A song I knew well rang in my ears and I felt the presence of one who meant the words completely: Be not afraid. I go before you always. Come, follow me, and I will give you rest. (from Isaiah) For the first time since that fateful Tuesday, I felt comfort, peace, gratitude for the dawn of day. And the strength to move forward, to take each day, each step, each challenge as it came. The dreams stopped. The sun felt warm, the rain refreshed, the cries of the baby filled me with love for life and a desire to be.

I knew everything would be all right. Not perfect in my eyes, not what I might like or want or wish for, but right. I learned to seek with all my heart. A lesson I still struggle with, but that's another story for another time.

Jeremiah 29, especially v13 & 14.

dig and scrape

I've been scrabbling lately. Not the kind with words and letter tiles and laughter with friends and family, either. The kind with tears and ragged fingernails and wishes for a solid reason to call in quite sick. For a year or so.

What's wrong, you ask? That's hard to say. A lifetime of wishing, hoping and dreaming in a head on collision with reality, I suppose. Add in a healthy amount of fear in letting it all go - or play out - and, well, you get something close to what's swirling around inside. There's also a fair amount of inner healing that's been going on (which means digging deep and learning to recognize the me that's really me behind the me I think I want everyone else to see, but not really know because it's all way too complicated). Top it off with my go to person being unavailable, or mostly so, and the mess is a little closer to what we're talking about.

So tonight a friend took matters into her own hands. Quite literally, as she dragged me (admittedly fairly willingly) over to see a visiting priest. In a five minute conversation, my perspective was changed. Energy cannot be created, only changed; redirected. "The same is true of spiritual energy," he said. How to change the negative (which can only recharge negative) to a more positive question? The question to pray is still "Why is this so?" But the 'this' is changed, transformed to an energy I want and need in my life - one that is more Christ-like. From frustration to patience. From anger to compassion.

Interestingly, the subtle change in direction has the effect of clarifying ever so slightly some other concepts I've been working on in therapy. And the key falls somewhere in my perceived feeling of judgement, of expectations and of preconceptions. For the first time, I can see the possibility of achieving the endgame. I still have fear and apprehension, but I also have great hope and faith.

a double three

I missed posting yesterday, although I did not miss knowing what to say. I went through my list before sleep last night, knowing I would get to it today. Here's yesterday:

#1 That nifty effect our brainwaves have when we "connect" with someone. It's an actual thing, and it means so much to know that when there's that click, there's also increased creativity and positivity. I just wish I could remember the name.....

#2 Those people in my life that feel like they've been part of it forever. The ones I can talk with for hours, or sit in silence and not feel the least bit awkward.

#3 Laughter at work. Something that is currently kinda related to the previous two. Some days there's more, and some days there's none, but I really think there is ssomething terrific about being able to have genuine and spontaneous laughter while working. You can feel free to call me crazy.

And then there's today:
#1 Daily Mass. I wasn't going to go today, but I did and was very grateful for the message. And all the rest that comes with going to Mass. I walked in knowing I needed some centering, and walked out with a fresh outlook.

#2 The friends who encourage me to go to daily Mass! They employ different methods - and some of them may not even know they have that influence, but they do. I love each of them in a very special way.

#3 Classes to take! I registered for two classes today. I love learning, stretching, growing. I've missed being a student.