showing up

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



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

rejoice for you

Life is a funny thing. A few years ago, I thought my life was the most important thing I had. I was convinced that living my life meant doing more, being more, seeing more. Then I found myself disappointed because there were too many constraints on my resources -- time and money, mostly -- to get out and do. Trying to convince myself that the free stuff would do, I would still get mired in the time part. Nothing could make it all make sense. Somewhere in that time, I did manage to have some sanity and finish my degree -- a time and money commitment that made sense for lots of reasons. Still, I thought there should be more for me to do and see. Time marching on made the whole time kind of frantic. The darktime of winter doesn't help.

At one time, there was no such thing. Growing up, I loved winter. I loved the sun and the moon on the snow. I loved the silence that snow brought to the air; the stillness that only came on a winter evening. The sparkle of individual snowflakes in the air and in a snowbank. True, I loved it all from a window most of the time, but fall and winter were my favorites. An outdoorsy girl I never was, and these were the inside seasons; more time indoors, and more time allowed to sit and read or daydream. The darktime crept in later, living on a busier street, young kids, and staying at home with them was the beginning, but ...

The other day I stopped to visit a friend at work. I see him often, but we rarely get to talk much. In fact, I really only get to talk with him when he's at work and I visit. It seems to be the only time no one else is around to interrupt. We talked shop a little, and then got to talking about some health problems another friend is having. He's often told me about praying for his friends, and how he wishes he could do more for them. As we talked, he said he often asks the Lord before closing his eyes for the night that it be the last time; that he might just be invited to be with Him. As tears sprung to my eyes, I looked at him and made a promise. "When that happens, I promise I will rejoice." I watched as tears welled up in his eyes, and continued, "I will be sad for me, but I promise that for you I will rejoice." And I meant it. I don't know anyone else I could say that to, and mean it as much as I do. He hugged me close, thanked me, and I headed home, grateful to have him as both a friend and an example of faith.

During that frantic time -- which sometimes tries to steal my peace -- I never could have said, or even thought, such a thing. During that frantic time, I was not looking for peace, as I thought I was. I was looking for fullness, for something to fill what was missing in my heart. What I've learned, slowly and late, is that when Augustine talked about the God-shaped hole in our hearts, he nailed it. It didn't matter how many places I went, or how much stuff I had or did, if I couldn't share it with Someone who was right beside me the entire time, there was no point. My friend has shown me that in small things that he does, that he says, in the way he sees each person he talks to as the only person in the world in that brief moment. There will be a day when I miss him, the touch of his hand at Mass in the morning, his smile crinkling his eyes to slits, but in the meantime, I will continue to pray for him. He reminds me of Dad; his arms always open for a hug when I need one, and his attention focused when he questions me.

My birthday is next week; another reason I loved winter. February is nice for a lot of reasons: it's a short month, it's full of birthdays (me, Dad, Uncle Flash, Washington, Lincoln, just to name a few), and it's pretty quiet, other than a groundhog frenzy at the beginning and hearts and flowers in the middle. When Dad died in February a few years ago, I thought that affinity was going to be gone. There are times when there is still a sharp pain in my very being when I think of him, and I have to admit, he's the first one I thought of as I left my friend's shop. but I'm beginning to find joy even in that pain. My heart has him to miss, and that's a great gift. I've been able to picture him welcoming so many others to heaven. And I've begun to learn to let him go so that I can become the woman I am.

There are people who come into our lives, and we learn from them, we lean on them, we grow because of them. I blessed to have so many.

growing closer

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

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

albatross or sparrow

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

not the same

Tonight's homily contained a thought that really stuck with me, as a good homily should. (Actually, there were a number of good points to ponder, but then there was this one....) It went something like this, "Not one of us is the same person we were last New Year's Eve."
How very true.
If asked to specify changes, I'd be hard pressed, but all I need is a quick look inward to see a difference. Although there are individuals who would question or disagree, I can say with certainty that I wouldn't go back. I have a long way to go, but I have traveled far on this journey.
At the moment, I'm in a rough spot, kind of between, and difficult to define, but I'm learning the vocabulary to speak and live it. Augustine said something along the lines of his search for God leading to a search for himself.  That when he finally found his own heart, his true self, he found where God had been all along. I feel a certain affinity for Augustine. I've been looking at various areas of my life - past and present - and trying to find God in them. Some are easier than others, but what I'm slowly realizing is that I think the places I'm finding it hard are the times I was least myself; when I was working to please, impress, or blend in. The question may need to change from "where were You?" to "where was I?"
In the past year, I've begun to learn to stand firmly for myself. And to be consistent and firm in that, while also being calm and willing to receive what comes of it. I've made mistakes, but that's how we learn, we humans. I told my therapist yesterday that I have always hated 'practicing.' "As a dancer?" he laughed, "And yet you found a way." As we talked about that, he said that practice is an inefficient word for what we were really talking about. A better word?
Living.
And I realized he is right (as he often is) and that living is what I've had a hard time doing consistently. I do - have done - an awful lot of waiting. I'm moving forward. One step at a time, complete with stumbles, trips, scrapes and bruises. But I am not - am never - alone. God is with me, whether I recognize Him or not. I am not the person I was a year ago. And I am grateful to all who have helped me along.