lighten the load

The gist of my thought for the day:
Often, I have heard people saying that they have 'more baggage' than others. In my view, God gives us what we are intended to handle. He knows, after all, just what He is giving. Whether a change purse or a steamer trunk from another's outside perspective, the weight and density, ultimately, are roughly equivalent because they are personal.




From my reflection today:

The feeding of the five thousand shows the remarkable generosity of God and his great kindness towards us. When God gives, he gives abundantly. He gives more than we need for ourselves so that we may have something to share with others, especially those who lack what they need. God takes the little we have and multiplies is for the good of others. Do you trust in God's provision for you and do you share freely with others, especially those who are in need? (Laudate app for Android, 5/2/14)

My thought as I read:
Would He not also give abundantly of our troubles (our 'blessings in disguise'), so we might share them with others? In this sharing, we help each other: a burden is lightened, and a feeling of being alone is alleviated.






I'm not saying that past hurts, pains, questions or brokenness mean little. Quite the contrary! What I'm saying is that everyone has them. Ev-er-y-one. All of us. We all have baggage, and some of it is visible, and some of it is not. For some, dropping pieces of it here and there is easy--or looks it--and others can't seem to lose it no matter how hard they try.

Each of us has brokenness; each of us as human beings. And no one’s brokenness is more important, bigger, or harder than anyone else’s. Nor is it any less. It’s just simply their own. To think that someone has more reason to be broken than any other is to diminish the other--and one’s own. No one -- anywhere or anytime -- has the ability to judge or rate anyone else’s brokenness, pain, sorrow, woundedness.

Rather, our purpose as family -- God’s family -- is to share in that need that our brothers and sisters have; acknowledging its existence, having a willingness to help bear it, admitting that we, too, need support. None is more broken than another, and no one is too old or too young to be broken or wounded.


Dietrich Bonhoeffer writes:

God loves man. God loves the world. It is not an ideal man that he loves, but man as he is; not an ideal world, but the real world. ... God becomes man, real man. While we are trying to grow out beyond our manhood, to leave the man behind us, God becomes man and we have to recognize that God wishes us men, too, to be real men. ... God makes no distinction at all in his love for the real man. He does not permit us to classify men and the world according to our own standards and to set ourselves up as judges over them. He leads us by himself becoming a real man and a companion of sinners and thereby compelling us to become the judges of God. ... God sides with the real man and with the real world against all their accusers. (Ethics, p. 52-56, edited by Aileen Taylor)

My thought:
God became us, with everything that we are, feel, hope. Maximizing one's own baggage is to lessen the strength and weight of His cross--His ultimate baggage. In the cross, He carried all of our baggage, didn't He? Although my hurts may not have been my fault, how I handle, carry, react, behave may have caused my sin to be added to that weight. If I were to say, "I have more baggage than you," would I be implying that the weight I carry is comparable to, or even more than, the weight of the world; the weight of the cross that saved us? I'm learning to be grateful for what I carry, hard as that may be, because it gives me opportunities--for prayer, for fellowship, for growth, for strength. All in my weakness and inability to carry it all by myself.

Baggage is not a competition. And more: pointing out 'more' versus 'less' would certainly not help anyone who already feels overwhelmed. The unfortunate thing is the diminishing; the implication that someone else's burden is not as important, not as worth sharing. I have a friend who tells her kids "Don't ever let anyone make you feel less than." Comparing baggage piles just makes everyone feel less than. And, honestly, how much of that baggage is filled with garbage? I know most of mine is.

Strike that. All of mine is.

I just choose to carry some of it around with me, despite my best efforts. Not the choice I particularly like to have made, but I continue to work on my own. Not just sifting through it, but also learning to share it with others. Never do I hope to brag about any of the stuff I've got shoved into the depths of my heart. I may hope to compare notes, with the realization of "you, too?!" What's in there, or the combination thereof, is mine and mine alone, just as what you carry belongs to you. I think it's part of my journey to find the people who can help me to pull those broken pieces out, and arrange them on me to build a mosaic. And to help others find the mosaic inside of them.

portions of this post were previously written by me as both email and text messages

Book Talk

Happy are you poor, by Thomas Dubay

Book Club discussion on May 13

What struck me most was the consistent theme that a person in love can think of nothing else; the world fades away and nothing matters. There is great truth in that sentiment! Each day I find myself falling more and more deeply in love with God, with Jesus, with my faith, our faith. And in that love, I find I can more easily accept even that which I do not understand.

 

The next thing that made me think hard about where I am is giving from my need, rather than just from my excess. The author was right in pointing out that giving is easy when it's what I can afford, or am willing to part with. Since coming across this point, I've been more inclined to simply give. And I've been prepared to hand things over, just for the asking. I've also offered food and shelter to strangers. Knowing that it's outside my comfort a bit (personally and monetarily) has been far outweighed by the knowledge that it's the right thing to do. God will provide, in whatever way He sees the need.

 

That brings me to another point I've been pondering. What I perceive to be my needs are not necessarily what I truly need. My faith has deepened with the idea that there is so very little that I need, as opposed to what I have to give. I've taken a huge leap of faith (2 actually) and the fruits are already ripening. Opening my heart to trust in the gifts I've been given, and to use and act upon them came as much from learning about being poor in spirit as from any other book we've read.

 

I also saw many parallels with St. Therese, Thomas Merton, Bonhoeffer, St. Paul, and even Andrew Comiskey's works. Each opening of the heart leading to another. Living faith out loud, rather than quietly and alone. Giving from an emotional and spiritual standpoint, as much as from a monetary (physical) one. I feel more prepared to live as an example to our children, too, although I know there are still some things I am not yet ready to give up or let go of. I'm willing to admit and "own" them, though, and that is progress toward eventually giving all.

 

In the giving, I've also started to ask. There are things that money cannot buy, but that we shouldn't do without--a shoulder to lean on, a heart to connect with, advice. These are things I've always had a hard time asking for in my moments of need, though I give them freely. I love that the concepts in this book, and our last, have given me permission to need those things, and also to say so.

 

there you are

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

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

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

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

I burst into tears.

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

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

it was good

I went to States today to see Henry swim. He was his usual amazingly athletic self, and the team did great, but the coolest thing was the way it became prayerful for me. Amongst the explanations to the newbies, and the cheering and excitement, I was profoundly touched be the realization that every ounce of what I was feeling was for Henry. Whether he knew it or not; whether he wanted or needed it or not. My love and pride and hopes and prayers were all for his focus. And in the middle of a hot, crowded, noisy natatorium, I heard the voice I'd been looking to hear. 

And it was good.

one of those days

So today was one of those days when I wished I could quit in the middle and try again last week. I spent the entire morning dealing with issue after issue that I either had caused (working too quickly when someone was looking over my shoulder), helped cause, couldn't explain or figure out, or just plain needed to be redone. There was a point at which I stopped and hoped for tears to come. They wouldn't, and I felt sure I was going to catch hell for all of it. So I prayed, and asked for prayers from 3 people. And realized I had just said this morning that I do my best to avoid criticism.

That sometimes means I avoid doing - or being. More than sometimes. 

The prayers helped (tremendously), of course. And ultimately all of the problems I that came across my desk today will eventually be resolved. I came home and sat outside for a while. I also made that phone call I'd been putting off (the response was quite positive), and contemplated the Our Father.

Tuesday was pretty good in the end.

saints and sinners

I read this yesterday in one book, and this morning in another:

The pious fellowship permits no one to be a sinner. So everybody must conceal his sin from himself and from the  fellowship. We dare not be sinners. (Dietrich Bonhoeffer)

The interesting thing to me is the communal nature of confessing presented in both books. Bonhoeffer was Lutheran, but was influenced by experiences he had with the Catholic Church. He believed strongly in the power of confession to reunite us with God. I do, too. That alone does not make it any easier to go to confession.
I've gotten better at it. For a long time, I truly believed it necessary to go to a different priest every time. In all honesty, there was a fear of judgement; a fear that opinions might change. I was afraid that who I was seen as would not match what I might confess.

What I was really afraid of was how I would see myself.

pen and ink

Lately I have been writing quite a bit. On paper. With a pen. There are way more spelling errors that way, but the flow of ink has been especially therapeutic. Trying to think things through, and realizing I probably need some guidance, I have been organizing my thoughts on paper.

It's interesting because I've always thought of my blog as a bit of an online journal; someplace I can record my thoughts and feelings and share them with people who want to know about them. Writing in a notebook is a different experience. Whereas I don't particularly wonder who might read my blog, I do find myself wondering who might open my notebook and start to read. While my blog is left out in the open all the time, my journal is frequently very close to me, or in a dark pocket in my bag, safe.

I'd forgotten how particular one can be about a pen. And how attached to specific ink colors and points one can become. A black, fine tip pen (preferably accountant tip) was my prefered tool in high school and college, along with college-ruled paper. Blue ink seemed more dreamy somehow; less serious. Black ink was sure, confident--something I wanted to appear to be. 'Fake it till you make it!' I still like black ink, and I'd love to find an accountant fine pen that won't rip up the recycled paper that often makes up the little notebooks I like. I've added highlighters to my palette along the way, although I use them more often when I read than when I write.

For Christmas, my husband got me a pack of pens, a pack of highlighters, and a notebook. Somehow he was moved to find these gifts for me, even though  at the time I hardly wrote anything. I typed my thoughts. Ever since, I have found reasons to write down my impressions, to make them flow through my hand from my heart and mind.

And I wonder why. Why does it feel good to  shape the words? I use a mix of cursive and printing--often to distinguish specific thoughts or voices. Sometimes I use cursive for the deeper thoughts, the things that feel a little more secretive or private. When I copy down a verse, line, or quote, I print. Why do I do that? Who is it I think will ever want to crack the code? That's the biggest mystery. I am writing for myself. And I know the code.

At least the code for the words on the page.

What I'm looking for is the code behind the thoughts in my head, the movements of my heart. I tell myself I'm looking for patterns, or answers, or bigger questions, but the fact is, I still don't go back and read what I've written. I have a habit of wanting answers now. That probably would be better facilitated if I did go back and read my own words. I think the problem is that I don't value them.

A friend and I were just talking about that. When I have a problem or concern I want to talk about, I hem and haw about speaking up.  Inevitably, just at the point when I am ready to spill it all, someone else drops what seems to me to be a bigger, tougher, or more important problem. Who would want to hear about what's bothering me then? I'm reading a book on brokenness, and this was touched upon. I'll have to see where it leads. And I'll have to figure out how it fits.