coffee for one

Some mornings I brew a full pot of coffee in hopes that someone might stop by unexpectedly for some - allowing myself to forget that there really aren't any neighbors. In the end, I'll drink it myself; today being one of those mornings. But as I pour and add just a touch of cream, I will think of those whose faces I would be overjoyed to see at the window. The list is short, specific. There are others I would  open the door to, who are not currently "on the radar, but perhaps should be." These others would face unknown scrutiny: questions that will float through my head searching for answers in conversation, movement, tone -- my gut. "Examine motivation." Not my accustomed MO. Why are you asking; what are you doing here; can you possibly understand with what little I've been able to ever make known? What am I saying; why do I want to respond; am I looking for something that isn't there? Motivation belongs to both parties, and although "no motivation is completely pure," coffee is sometimes coffee. 

How am I to examine motivation, and at the same time work less at finding and just BE? 

Coffee's ready; time's up. Just me and the sounds of the house, waiting for You. 

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. 

making a list

This morning, before work and school, one of the boys come and told me something he wanted for Christmas. We talked a little, and I reminded him of something he'd already asked for. Both I can't do, but I could do one or the other. 

Later - this evening - he told me about asking his brothers what they would like for Christmas. As we talked, I honestly couldn't remember ever having been asked what I wanted for Christmas. At one time, I believe I was told that asking someone for a Christmas list proved a lack of knowledge about the person. So I never made a list; never offered. Many Christmas mornings found me disappointed that those who hadn't asked really didn't seem to know me. Every time I blamed myself for not being "me" enough for others to know me. 

Last week I was asked if a class I mentioned was something I would really like to do, if I had the money for it. "There you go; when anyone asks you what you want for Christmas this year, you can tell them you'd like cash for the class registration." When. I heard it and automatically changed it in my mind to "if." Despite what was said, I was already preparing for that disappointment. 

Yes. I know that Christmas is not about the gifts. And yet I am sorely aware of how bare the floor beneath our tree will be this year. I tell myself that the boys, my menfolk, have been raised well enough to know there's far more to the day than piles of presents. And I pray that I know them well enough to be able to find something special for each of them. Not because I feel I need to, but because I want to. Their responses to their brother's inquiry do not surprise me at all. I'll do my best. And hope they know my love for them is more than I can ever put in a box or a gift bag. 

My Christmas list?

~cash for fencing or ballroom class

~cash toward the repairs on the car

~coffee from Kona

~gift card for books

Simple stuff, really. 

holey socks

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

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

More should go than stay. 

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

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

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

questions and answers

Everything has been crazy lately. Well, everything except work, which has been only the normal, usual kind of crazy. In the crazy, I realized tonight I have a question. Trouble is, I can't quite put my finger on it. Pieces of it are right in front of my lips, but each seems as though it requires backstory to see them together. The effect being "I have a question" turns into "I have a story that may or may not make enough sense to you that I could ask your thoughts on it." A bit more cumbersome, no?

There was a time when that would frustrate me immensely. Tonight, however, after a couple years of conversations with some essential people, I'm figuring if the answer is necessary, the question will find its way out. I also know that there's a good possibility that I already know the answer, resulting in the question being elusive. It's happened before: I struggle with distilling thoughts into a cohesive, concise question with the goal of asking, only to discover that in the process I have missed the answer; unearthed and evident. 

Learning, growth, understanding - whichever it may be - takes practice. Time. And it's worth every question. 

grace and gratitude

There are scones in the oven, a pie waiting to be baked, dishes in the sink, but there is coffee in my mug, and I'm going to savor it. One of the lovely 'perks' of using a French press is that there is no thermal carafe, so I am gently encouraged to slow down a little and appreciate some little things. Like hot coffee, and the memories and dreams that swirl therein.

On this Thanksgiving morning, in these early moments before any of the boys wake, I sit in my newly painted kitchen, delighted that my dearest friends are with their families, as am I. Thanksgiving has long been my favorite holiday. In my mind, it's about simplicity -- favorite foods, favorite people, wine, coffee, conversation, and pie. There is introspection, which (in moderation, I'm finding!), is beneficial to dreaming, planning, goal-setting. [As a matter of fact, Thursday is my favorite day. This past week, for the first time, I put the two together and wondered if there is a relationship between these favorites. I may begin a new experiment and make every Thursday a thanksgiving day....]

Over the past week, I've had a few people make a point of telling me "There is still so much to be thankful for." I agreed with each of them. They are all well meaning and dear, but the truth is, I never needed that reminder. I am thankful. I am even grateful. Nothing in life can take that away from me; certainly not court dates and postponed grocery shopping. On the contrary, these are precisely some of the things that remind me how wonderful my life really is. I am reminded more often how thoughtful my sons are, how understanding; how deep the true friendships are, and how shallow some have shown to be; the bright future (that I admit needing reminders about from time to time) ahead of me, and that the future begins in each moment. I am truly grateful and thankful for each of these things, these people.

In the past few months, I have begun to learn to receive. Interestingly, I had no idea that I hadn't quite grasped that concept. God has prepared me to receive in ways I never would have imagined, and not having asked for this lesson makes it difficult to understand, to process, to accept; and yet, I knew about a year ago how important it is as I argued the difference between accepting a gift and receiving one in a meeting. So much in my life I accepted without truly receiving -- good and bad -- and as a result I didn't share what I could have. "If you don't give away the gifts you have, there is no space to receive." That from a priest in confession last summer, as he showed me where in my life I was clenching my fists; accepting, but not receiving.I am thankful for the lesson, even as it continues, even as painful as it can be at times. I am grateful.

On this Thanksgiving morning, as my mug is drained, the scones are done, the faucet drips in the silence broken only by the keyboard keys, I am more grateful than I have ever been. I am thankful for the family I have discovered in my dearest friends who manage to take turns every single day telling me they love me (and meaning it more than anyone ever has). For some unexpected friends who pop into my day from time to time offering just the right words (thank you for listening to the Voice that nudges you gently to ask, to speak, to text). For the staff I work with, which includes two amazing Core Teams I coordinate, not all of whom know much about me at all, but who lift me up in prayer, in laughter, in concern for jobs well done, and sometimes in tears and frustration; their position in my heart is unexpectedly beautiful. In the church community, who we tell the teens are a family -- I have found more genuine joy in simple handshakes, smiles, and hugs than I can adequately express. Their intuition as a whole is incredible and humbling. For the absolutely amazing network of youth ministers that has accepted me as a member of their crew, imperfections and all. Never have I felt a greater sense of belonging in a group than I have with these people. There is so much I learn from them every day, so much strength to continue I garner from them, personally and professionally, knowing that truly everything that I receive from them comes from God. For my children, from whom I learn constantly. Their grace humbles and encourages me. Their love floors me. The fact that God entrusted them to this imperfection......a thought that leaves me speechless every time.

I am blessed beyond measure, and never have I been more aware of the blessings. Bottom line, I am beginning to believe my favorite verse "Are not five sparrows sold for two small coins? Yet not one of them has escaped the notice of God. Even the hairs of your head have all been counted. Do not be afraid. You are worth more than many sparrows" (Luke 12:6-7). I am a child of God. No one can take that away from me, and no one can Love me as much as He. Happy Thanksgiving!

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?

limitless possibilities

The air in the room was thick with chocolate; as the door opened, the aroma emerged as a presence. Standing amid the display cases filled with delectable treats, she inhaled the atmosphere. "What do you want?" he asked her. Gazing through the glass, she was surprised by the question. Who had ever asked her this before? Had she ever heard the question?

Could she answer?

"What do you want? Pick something."

Her eyes lingered on the confections, deeply inhaling and imagining the flavor, the texture of each. "I can't bite this. I can't chew that." Aware of her aching jaw; the numbness in her gum and lip.

"I didn't ask what you can't have. I asked what you want to have. Choose something. Whatever you like." His insistence surprised her; brought to life something previously dormant. She looked around, narrowing her choices, almost watching herself from outside. Her mind's eye saw pieces fitting together: smell, sight, desire -- and a realization that she was about to be treated, "spoiled," indulged. Unused to the mix of feelings, she was about to, out of habit, allow the moment to pass with a murmured, "Nothing, thank you," when another voice interrupted her reverie. "Which are you getting?" the second voice asked.

"That one looks good," she said, sounding rather vague even to herself. He spoke again, "So one of those, and what else. Pick another." Suddenly she realized she quite literally was a kid in a candy store, and for a moment, all of it was hers. She could choose anything. She needed only to believe it possible. More definitively she said, "I'd like that, too." She watched in amazement as the treats were bagged and paid for, still unsure of their final destination. Her belief from a moment before flagged....but remembered; imprinted on her heart and nurtured when later she found the bag at her place at the table, the contents undisturbed, unadulterated.

And she began to feel alive.

blessed beyond measure

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

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

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

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

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

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.

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?

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.

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.

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.

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. 

cut it out

Three weeks ago, I had oral surgery to remove wisdom teeth, an osteoma in my gum, and tori. I'm glad I was anesthetized. I am also incredibly grateful to my family and friends who have been so supportive and loving as I recover. Their prayers, laughter (especially at my expense from time to time!), quest for soft foods that taste good, and other acts of love, big and small, have touched me deeply. The occasional slurred speech and lisp, the continued numbness, the never-ending smoothies, the stitches still flopping around all get frustrating at times. I just want to eat something! And yet, I find myself grateful, too, for the entire experience.

This was my first surgery, ever; although it was my third experience with anesthesia. It was my second experience with strong pain meds, and the first time I prayed in thanksgiving consistently with each wave of pain. Seriously.

For reasons I can't get into right now because of the firestorm that would result, I had walled myself up and stopped feeling for a while. The pain in my mouth and jaw mirrored the feeling I have begun to allow my heart and soul lately. Sometimes a dull ache, and other times out and out pain; the burning of a nerve irritated by a clot and swelling, the mushy feeling of a lip, all are reminders that I am, indeed, alive and well, through and through. There are plenty of times I don't like it -- feeling, I mean. It's far easier to feel nothing, to ignore pain, anger, frustration. But to feel nothing is to not live fully. Without feeling there is also no room for love, forgiveness, joy, compassion. The numbness in my lip and chin makes for some crazy images in my own mind of how I must look: misshapen, unattractive, unlovable. Similar are the aural images I perceive. And yet, I look in the mirror, and listen again, or talk with those who have been with me over the past three weeks, and we agree: If you didn't know, you wouldn't know. It's my own perception, and what I allow myself to believe, to see, to hear.

Each day I thank God for the newness of the day, be it one more millimeter of feeling returned to my skin, gums, tongue, or the fact that everything feels just a little worse. I'm feeling. Whether I like it or not is not the point at all -- I asked to be able to feel again, in my heart and soul, but He knows I like metaphors. I picture Him smiling as He sits beside me, listening to my slurred and lispy prayer, trying not to touch the nerve that screams (softer now than a week ago, but still) at the slightest provocation. He smiles not because He's happy that it hurts, but because I am sitting with Him. I am asking Him to be with me, to feel with me, to be in my heart and in my jaw.

The irritation of the nerve is temporary, as is the soft diet: nine and about two months, respectively. Before the surgery, the doctor warned me about the nerve thing, saying that if it happened, it could be anywhere from a few weeks to permanent. There are times when I think that permanent is an easier thing to deal with, because then it is what it is, rather than frequent assessment (still there? Yep. gah.) Other times I can only think about the here and now -- namely the stitches that are loosening up and taking their own sweet time to fall out. Either way I am living and praying the moment.

And very grateful.

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.

a shared space

The purpose of a pilgrimage to the Holy Land is not to visit a place; it is to find a God: the God made visible in His Son Jesus, who walked these lands; and with each step made not only this place, but the whole world holy.
~Fr. Chet Snyder, A Sabbath Shared

Perhaps this is why I still have a hard time knowing what to say when people ask about my trip. There was a priest I spoke with on the roof of Notre Dame, overlooking the Old City of Jerusalem, who told me that he preferred Jerusalem to Rome, not because of the sites and location, but because of the people who visit. He told me the disposition of the heart seemed different: those visiting Rome tended to be visiting the place, while those visiting Israel were looking to know a Man.

Not long ago, my pastor asked where I would go back to, which site, which spot would I choose to go to and stay for a few hours. Without hesitation I replied, "The hotel lobby in Jerusalem." I knew it seemed an odd answer to him, but I had been considering the question since our return (without thinking I'd ever be asked), so I had a ready explanation. Jerusalem was our last hotel, and we stayed there three nights. Each day when we returned to the hotel, I'd go up to the room and drop off packages, freshen up, and go to the lobby. Sometimes alone, sometimes with others, always with a glass of wine or a cup of espresso. And I would unpack the day, the sites, the sounds, the very air. Whether I was engaged in conversation or sitting alone, I truly pondered how everything was fitting together. In that lobby is where we saw the group come in wearing their Purim costumes, heading to a party, so we Googled Purim and wondered at the marvelous timing of our trip. We watched and heard interactions in a language and custom we didn't know or understand. That lobby is where I began to really know some others on the trip; where we shared feelings, doubts, questions, personal histories. But all the while, I was very aware that Christ was in our midst, sitting with us, listening, laughing, sharing.



Reading Fr Snyder's words this morning, I was again sitting in the lobby, only my physical self was in Pennsylvania at our dining room table. Lately, when I think of God, of praying, of finding comfort, I am sitting in an armchair in the Leonardo in Jerusalem. Actually, that was the point of the question from my friend. We were talking about prayer. His advice was to ask Jesus to join me in the lobby for a glass of wine or a cup of espresso, and spend time together unpacking the day: the good and the bad, the challenges for the next day, and the celebrations in my heart. And I do. Not every day, as I probably should, but certainly more often than I had been reviewing, preparing, praying with Him as a Friend. My laptop won't recognize my phone since my return, so the nine hundred or so photos I've taken are in limbo. As I think of sharing them, I email them to myself, or pull from Facebook something I've posted there. I've wondered why this inconvenience doesn't bother me terribly. And I've wondered, too, why I'm not more frustrated by the technology. The thing is, what's most important about going to Israel, being there, is in my heart, not on my phone in digital photographs. Eventually I will manage to get them to my computer and print a few. In the meantime, I have the clearest pictures in my mind, because I'm still there most days, for at least a little while.

dig in

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

Who's in?

castles and moats

There is a project I have due tomorrow, and I have been passively avoiding it. By that I mean I am allowing myself to get caught up in other 'business' like sewing, cleaning, Pinterest, counting pennies....just about anything that will seem productive when I look back at the day. [Yes, Pinterest. I made a board of projects I want to get done by fall. It had to be done sometime!] Today I grabbed hold of a piece of advice from my therapist and gave myself the command: "Do nothing but this project for the next hour and a half." It almost worked. I mean, I know where the project is going now (I think), but in the process, I sent a rather lengthy email (related, but likely not necessary) and also took a phone call. In so doing, I was trying to practice avoidance, but they managed to clarify and give direction and shape to the project, so I can maybe mark the 'done' box. Make that the 'started' box.

What came out of the morning was an admission. Not a new one, but a repeat that has never gotten me anywhere before. Here's the thing: the project has to do with opening my heart, baring my soul, and revealing old scars and wounds that may never heal fully, and letting Christ walk with me in the pain, toward healing. Trouble is, when I feel pain, I turn away from everyone, myself included, and isolate. Not to lick my wounds, but to ignore them. My heart, I'm afraid, is a mass of grisly, ugly scars that have tried to heal over despite getting infected from lack of attention. In my brokenness, I believe that pain is meant to be hidden away, ignored, unnamed. Eventually it will go away. And then we can forget about it. My therapist and I are working on that -- albeit slowly because I can't bring myself to look as deep as I need to, even in the safety of his office. On my walk of faith, my heartpain has been touched upon, but I kid myself into thinking that God will make his own way there without my assistance. I mean, he's God, right? Can't he do anything he wants?

Today I admitted that my turning inward is an addiction to me. I try (unsuccessfully) to convince myself that it doesn't affect anyone but me, since I'm alone. I know it's not in my best interest to keep it all to myself, yet I not only avoid sharing, I actively decide not to. To borrow a phrase from therapy, it's comfortable because it's familiar, not because it fits. And when I think something might begin to hurt, I've begun looking for the solitude, except that instead of being a refreshing break from contact with whatever or whomever is causing my distress, it's become extreme, to the point of desolation.

I read this today:

We need to withdraw from time to time
from all unnecessary cares and business.

Sound advice, yes? It's St. Teresa of Avila, and when similar advice was issued a few months ago, I got frustrated (angry?) because I knew this withdrawing I do is not healthy, that it hurts my soul more than it helps. Today, as I read those words, I realized they have the opposite meaning. The key word is 'unnecessary.' For my situation, withdrawing from unnecessary cares points toward contact with others. I need to withdraw from the unnecessary -- dwelling on the hurts and pains. I need to back away from my walled castle and cross the moat to meet those who can offer themselves to me. I need to begin the work of allowing myself to be heard, showing my pain, and ultimately asking for help in nursing my wounds. When others share their pain with me, I can feel it, and I welcome their sharing. Lightening their load is something I don't need to think twice about. But I claim my load to be mine and mine alone. I cannot carry it by myself. I don't know how to share it, how to give it over. Not even to God. I ask him to take it, but I pick and choose which bits he can carry. And that's not fair to either one of us.

Now to figure out how to lower this drawbridge...

talking to myself

"That's the problem with me: I assume you'll understand things better the way I put them, but maybe I'm only making sense to myself."
~Teresa of Avila, Interior Castle, trans. Mirabai Starr

Here, on these pages, I don't set out to be understood. In fact, most of the time when I put my fingers to the keys of my laptop, it's because there is something I truly don't understand and words on a page are all that I can hope will bring clarity. I have a devotional book that I use often (not as often as I used to. I'm in a hard place right now) and when I have something to say to the Lord, I write in it. At one time, I used the margins, but these days I use the reading for the day as my canvas. Occasionally Guy will see me writing and ask if I can still read what was originally on the page. I smile and assure him I can (because I can), but that really I don't need to read what was there because tomorrow it won't matter (because I don't think it will). 

Teresa of Avila was "ordered" to write Interior Castle. According to this translator, the order was more suggestion than anything else, but since it came from her spiritual director, a man, and it was the time of great inquisitions and persecutions of anyone with extraordinary ideas, she "obeyed." The book is lovely, and fun to read -- Teresa offers many asides and tangents along the way, making it seem as though she's sitting with an old friend, the reader. 

Sometimes when I sit to write, I am intentionally unclear. One reason is related to privacy. (Truly a funny concept in a blogged journal!) I don't want anyone to know the details of what I'm thinking, feeling, working through, but I do want to, need to, share the associated feelings. Other times I'm experimenting with metaphor or some such nonsense. Still other times I just wonder if anyone is reading, hoping, perhaps, that there will be some question or comment that can offer me some hope that clarity is out there. I've been accused of being obtuse at times. I prefer to think I'm being recondite. Either way, it's usually a call to action, a request for company, a need for fellowship that I can't pinpoint or specifically ask for. 

I'm in an odd place: my life is happy -- my job, my family, my home -- frustrating at times, but happy. My soul is sad. I have lost something, and I don't know what it is, or where to look for it. So I wait, and hope that someone understands enough to help guide me, to nurture me, to simply sit with me. 

Maybe I'm only making sense to myself.

getting there

As people ask me about visiting the Holy Land, I am still unable to truly express what struck me most. There is a good reason for that -- being there itself was, indeed, the miracle. When I say it aloud in answer to the question, though, it sounds like I don't want to answer.

There is no way I could have gone on that trip on my own. I'd heard about the trip while I was working full-time, but I had spent my vacation time for the year, so I figured dreaming was all I would get to do. I dreamt. And I loved the dreaming. Occasionally I would tell my workmate and friend that I would so love to go. Every time she would respond, "You're meant to go."

When I left that job to take a part-time position at church, I knew, without a doubt, that I had no chance of going. This time it was about the pricetag rather than the time factor. I planned to attend the information night anyway. I missed the meeting, but as it ended, a dear friend came out, telling me she had no intention of going, but wanted to know about the particulars. I told her about my dream, and my empty pockets.

"If you want to go, ask God if He could make it possible. If you're meant to go, He will make it possible if you are open to His help."

My prayer: "If you think I should, Lord."

The first time I got mail informing me of a dollar amount due me in the exact amount of the trip, I chuckled and shook my head. "Thanks, God." I stuck the letter to the bulletin board to deal with before the deadline for claiming it. The second time, from another source (same amount), I showed my husband and told him about the prayers, the dreams. He said to go. I wasn't keen on going by myself, so I shelved that one, too.

The third piece of mail listed exactly double the amount of the trip. The next day I processed the paperwork and within a week I'd made my deposit, all the while thanking God for His generosity.

So you see, being there was the true gift. Our trip included a good bit of history, Mass every day, fellowship. I spent a bit of each day simply thanking God for the amazing gift of being. Soaking in the sites, the sounds, the very air blessed me in a way I cannot describe. The woman who follows me at Adoration each week tells me she can still see the Holy Land on my face, in my being. There is so much I will continue to learn about myself and about my faith because of that trip.

Since our return I've had some challenges to my foundation. Serious ones, leading me to search earnestly for some guidance. But one morning I prayed once again, "Lord, it's not mine. I give it to you." Then I added, very sincerely, "If all of this is because of visiting the Holy Land, if I am going through this valley in proportion to or related to being where you lived, walked, preached, I don't mind. I would live it all again if I had to. I thank you, Lord, for every moment, from that first time I heard about the trip until today, tomorrow, and every day beyond." I would go again in a heartbeat, knowing full well it would be a very different experience.  

meant to be

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

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

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

Maybe. 

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

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

even for me

On our last day with Iyad, we traveled the Via Dolorosa -- the Way of the Cross. We followed each of the traditional fourteen stations on a road that was nothing like what I had ever pictured. In our Faith Matters class, we had seen the Via Dolorosa in video, in modern times. I had gone to see the IMAX film, Jerusalem 3D, and still, I was not prepared. The streets were narrower than I expected, and although they were not as crowded the day we were there as in the videos I'd seen, it amazed me just how close the quarters were. I found myself wondering from time to time how the crowds I'd seen on the screen could even fit in the space, and where those who live there go at those times. It's difficult for me to explain how that walk felt to me. I took very few pictures -- partly because I wanted to immerse myself in the walking, in being a part of His carrying the Cross, and partly because (well, mostly because) I did not want this day to be a tourist day. I wanted to observe through the eyes of my heart, not through a camera lens.

And yet, at the end of the day, when asked about my impressions, I realized that it was not my day to be moved. That sounds horrible, I suppose, but what I mean is, that day was about the part of Jesus' life that I'd known all my life; the story I'd heard again and again. The spots that moved me were the stations with the women -- Mary, Veronica, the women and children of Jerusalem. Three of the fourteen. Despite my best intentions, I did feel like a tourist most of the rest of the time. Throughout, I prayed, asking God what I was missing, and being continually reassured that I was where I needed to be. I was, indeed, moved by the tomb in the Church of the Holy Sepulchre: the silence inside was overwhelming, especially after the hubbub of the building itself.

But this piece of artwork stopped me in my tracks.

Just to the side of the tomb was the chapel where we had Mass that day. Another island of silence in an otherwise crazy atmosphere. This ironwork depiction of the stations of the cross hung directly across from the door. I gazed at it, transfixed, unable to cross the threshold. The simplicity, the stark contrast in color to the stone walls, the small scale of the figures relative to the room, the fact that it was painstakingly wrought from the same type of material that fastened Jesus to the cross.....but what strikes me most, even now, is the single line connecting each station. An underline for emphasis. A single line from the ancient to now; from the past to the present. From me to Jesus himself. And a line that underscores the fifteenth station added here -- the Resurrection. As I stood in the doorway, I could, for maybe the first time ever, see that all of it was for me. Me as one, individual child of God.

And that, I think, is why the rest of the day didn't touch me the way I'd anticipated. All my life I'd been taught that Jesus died for us all, for everyone, to save the world. Which is very true. But in those moments in the doorway, for the first time, I realized and understood a subtle difference: Jesus died for each of us. Semantics? Perhaps. But the thing is, for the past few years (most of my life?) I've been struggling with the idea that I matter in the eyes of God. I've been coming to terms with the idea that I am not invisible to Him, that I cannot hide, no matter how much I want to, or try to. I am His, regardless of what I think about that. More and more I have accepted and embraced that truth. This piece of artwork is a spear that drove that truth into my heart.

At Mass, I sat beneath Mary, greeting her Son, knowing she had raised him for this day, this mission. Knowing that she had raised him that I might know him. It was all I could do to pay attention at Mass that day -- the only day I was not completely engrossed in the ritual, the readings, the responses, so moved to gaze at this iron above me, and thinking I needed to resist that urge. Today is Good Friday, and my mind keeps wandering back to the Holy Land, to the sights and sounds, the air and the water, the people, and the way of the cross. All of it.

And I cannot stop the flow of tears.

Nor do I want to.

All I do, Lord, I do for you. Because of what you did for me.