The Conversation I Didn't Know I Had

Recently I went to the San Diego County Police Memorial. I arrived with my Aunt and a mind teaming with thoughts. This is the first year that we have ever attended the memorial without my grandma. She passed away just two weeks ago. Her absence was palpable. My aunt and I drove to the site reminiscing and discussing the loss we have been feeling in this past week. Recent loss felt compounded by this memorial of past loss (31 years for my dad, and 30 for my uncle). We are the only survivors at the memorial to be representing two officers...for me, my father and uncle...for my Aunt, her brother and brother-in-law. There is so much to this story and the loss, so profound. It's hard to even know how to begin.

I grew up on stories about my dad. I wish I could say that I have stories of my own to share with others, but I don't. My memory is a stagnant cloud that refuses the urging of the winds of time. While the speakers were on stage, sharing their own stories and thoughts, I couldn't hear them over the commotion invading my consciousness. My scars that have grown rough with time began to burn around the edges. If it were me, what would I say? I would talk about the sacrifice not just of the officers, but of the families as well. My dad willingly put himself in harms way, for the sake of the community, for the sake of every person that crossed his path. If I understood, as a child, what his job truly meant, I would have fought tooth and nail to keep him from work every day. My sacrifice was ultimately an unwilling one. That's why my dad is the hero, why he is deserving of honor.

There are very few stories I hear that are of just me and my dad. Actually, there are none that I can remember hearing. They always entail what he thought of all of us as a whole, how he loved being a father, or of things that happened with my older siblings. I was so little that there were few stories, or they just aren't remembered. You see, my sisters and brother have some memory of my dad. They know their own story with him, they remember his hands, his embrace, and maybe even his voice. I do not. For a long time I felt as if maybe my dad just connected with them better or that my time with him was so minuscule that nobody thought it valuable enough to share. Many people tell me stories about my dad, and it is so surreal to have loved ones and strangers tell me a part of my story as if I wasn't there...but I was there, I just can't remember. I feel disconnected from my origin sometimes. Some people even act as if my lack of memory diminishes my sense of loss. This is utterly untrue...it deepens it. The fact that people even think this actually amplifies my grief. At least others can soften their fall with a pillow of memory, I merely hit the ground. There is this man who was incredible, loving, and gentle that I cannot even recognize. I don't know what it would feel like to hear him sing to me, or to be held by his Popeye arms. I don't know him, I know the lack of him. I didn't get him then and I don't get him now.

At the memorial my Aunt and I were approached by a man that knew my dad. He was his training officer. Without knowing which of the four children I was, he begins to tell a story. He said he remembered my dad talking about his youngest, he also added that it was probably my younger sibling. He said that the baby was sleeping in bed with him and he was just in awe of her and how much he loved having another little one. He loved to watch her sleep. This was my story, one that I never heard before. This was for me. I was barely keeping myself together in this moment. What a precious gift, and he didn't even know he was giving it. This man proceeded to say things that spoke directly into my swirling thoughts from the service. I realized that the whole time, God was listening. There was a conversation that I didn't know I had. God met me there in my loss, my turmoil, and my silence. I didn't even ask for it, He just gave it to me.

2 Corinthians 1: 3-5 The Message Bible "...We have plenty of hard times that come from following the Messiah, but no more so than the good times of his healing comfort—we get a full measure of that, too."

Increasing the Love

I love you and I've never met you.
I miss you and I've never had your company.
I long for your hugs and I've never known your embrace.
I look for you although I've never seen your eyes.
I fear for you,
I'm protective of you,
and I can't even stand between you and the world.
I know you are there and I can't quite reach you.
I'm waiting for you and I don't know how long till you are here.

I can hear your heartbeat in the echo of my own
Your laughter is blended with the children in my home
I imagine your thoughts when my mind goes astray
Your words won't go unheard and you'll never be alone

---

I hate waiting. Waiting scares me...as if what I want so badly will scatter in the winds of time. I can feel this child. It sounds crazy and maybe even cliche, but they are with me. Their spirit mingles with mine. Do he or she feel me too? If they do, do they know what that means? Do they recognize my heartbeat that lingers at the fringes of their consciousness? Will they know me when we meet?

How long will this take? My baby is alive and living in a world I cannot control, and I cannot protect them...not yet. The cost of this is my heart, mine and my family's. It has to be. The greatest gifts must cost...they are worth every beat, every pulse, every tear, every fear, every part of what makes one a parent...every part of what makes one a piece in a family.

Oh sweet little one, it may be years for you to understand or know, but we pray for you...not just to be ours, for that would be amazing, but for your heart, your safety, your life, your mind, your body, and your soul. Every part of you is thought about.  We want you to know you were loved before we met you. You are so worthy, so valuable, so precious. We want to be what you need and we want to love you without abandon. Yes, we will adopt you, but you will adopt us too.

To Be, Or Not To Be...Known

Today at church I enjoyed the worship that washed over me and the sermon that spoke of God's inclusive love.  I found myself considering my hang ups.  I was trying to figure out how much I let wash off of me in the waters of baptism.  I sat there struggling to maintain composure.  It seems as if my struggle with my own vulnerability is getting harder and harder as I get older.  I want to let go in this moment...things I thought I let go, but somehow they reappear with different life moments.  I just can't, or am not willing.  I'm afraid of my vulnerability, the ugly cry that will rear its head.  So many times I have wanted to be "known," and I see that my desire and my fear are the same thing.  How is that possible? I tell myself I need to get home so I can truly let go, so others don't become an audience to my hidden fragility.

I often have these conversations with people about how they think I'm this confident person who doesn't shy away from others.  This is one side of my dual nature.  I love people, I love real time spent together, and community.  But what people usually see of me, in a larger public setting, is my fear, anxiety, and my vulnerability dressed in costume.  This is still me, but only a part of me.  Yes, I am funny, silly, talkative, and quirky;  what you are seeing though is my inability to relax.  Now I'll contradict myself and say that this can also be my favorite part of me, for a number of reasons. This can be a catalyst to help me relax, but it can also be a way for me to slip further into my safe place.

There are very few who truly know me...less than a handful.  I am very open about lots of things and wear my emotions, and opinion, on my sleeve.  So many may feel like they know me, but this is sadly untrue...

I stepped out of church today, having unknowingly left my husband in the building, wanting to just get home so I could maybe weep in the privacy of my closet.  Then I realize I cannot leave.  I have other things I have to do, so I close those doors.  I allow the buzz of my emotions to vibrate only beneath my skin, and I command my limbs to calm themselves.  For now my vulnerability must wait.  I wait for the comfort of my husband when we are alone, and for my one friend that shares my experience as well as a mutual understanding of how we sometimes have to be each other's kickstand.  I would love for there to be more people in this small circle of mine, but I'm afraid of that as well.  My costume I wear sometimes pulls me further away from people, so one day I would like to be able to strip myself of my safeguard and allow everyone in.  Although, I do not know when that will happen nor when I will truly be willing.  Right now though, I just need to allow God to share this with me.  Sometimes I let him cup my tightly bound hands.  Today I will move a finger, maybe tomorrow another.  Eventually I will drop my hands to my sides while God gently holds my vulnerability for me.  That will be a lovely day.

I write these sort of things in the attempt of being "known" without having to truly face people.  I feel like I have to explain myself as well.  I am happy, I am loved, and my life and family is a joy to me.  I am blessed beyond measure.  Just trying to be as transparent as possible in the best way I know how, in addition to allowing others, who sometimes feel the same, to feel like they are "known" as well.

The Broken, The Harvest, and Freedom Follows

We are all broken...somewhere.  A fracture here; a crack there...no one can pass through life without a wound.  Some wounds are of our own making. Others are presented to us as if they are our fault, but they aren't, they are merely packaged that way.  Then we find that, at some point, our bodies can no longer withstand the weight that we were never meant to carry.  We then crumble beneath the burden.  Scattered, broken, pieces.

One day at church we were having communion and our pastor was talking about how Jesus was broken for us.  That he shed this blood offering for our sin.  It was as if God came right into my ear and whispered, "I was broken for your brokenness, not just your sin.  I mourn this with you…oh, beloved your pain pain's me, I'm broken with you.  I'm so sorry for this, but I won't have you be broken by yourself.  So here I am, laying across the floor with you."  I thought to myself, maybe when I pick up these pieces, my pieces and Jesus' pieces, I could put them together so that my whole self fits right.  So that my pieces and His pieces become our pieces.  So that this communion that everyone talks about, but only partly understands, could be real.  Jesus doesn't just want to be my friend, He wants to be stitched in with me.  He wants to share this vessel of my body.  He's pleading with me to include His pieces as I try to harvest myself.

So I sat, wishing that I could leave certain pieces of me on the ground to decompose into the earth and be gone.  This was my battle…Jesus put that piece in my hand, that piece that I never accepted and longed to be free from.  I threw it as hard and as far as I could, only to see it reappear right back at my feet.  He told me that He could transform it, and I honestly never trusted that.  I honestly fought with the idea that maybe I didn't want it transformed…I wanted it gone.  Unfortunately my story is written in permanent ink, and I don't have the liberty to erase chapters.  So what other choice did I have? I stomped my feet yelling in God's face, "I DON'T WANT IT!!!!  GET RID OF IT!!!!  MAKE IT GO AWAY!!!"  I felt Him gently caressing my cheek as He cried with me, saying, "Oh, if I could…but that is not my way.  There's something I have for you here.  I'm sorry for this thorn, but this will be something some-day.  I know you don't want to, but trust this...trust Me."   I saw Him pick that piece back up, along with one of His own, and He pressed them together, molding them into another piece that would fit into the hole that I struggled to protect.  His giant hand rested on my shoulder to calm my anxious trembling.  He placed it in the center of my back.  The place I could not see nor reach, the perfect place for a hole that I didn't want to acknowledge.  But He could reach it.

Freedom truly does follow.  The moment I accept all of myself, the burden lightens and the tightness in my chest, that I've come to see as normal, has disappeared.  The freedom comes from that acceptance...from my willingness to allow God to mold me into something new.  It is still there, that piece.  Although, it no longer haunts me, it no longer shames me...it no longer threatens my identity.  "I" am not identified by what has happened to me...my identity is revealed in what I do with what has been handed, forced, or presented to me.  How strange and wonderful it is to feel weightlessness in my heart.  To no longer feel angry, and only a lingering sadness for what could have been...because I would be lying if I said otherwise.  But this, this feeling I would choose any day.  This is the way it seems...to be broken, to harvest, and to accept my freedom.

The Folly In Human Interpretation

What we know of God and how we truly feel about God are two completely different things.  What we know is what we are told and what be believe is what we experience...at least what we experience of the world and those around us.  How do we reconcile this?  How do we change what's ingrained in our self-protection?

We find ourselves saying things like, "God is my protector."  Then we're exhausted by trying to brace ourselves for the impact of the inevitable events that we know will happen.  Why?  We don't believe He's interested?  Maybe self-protection had always been the status quo.  Maybe God was looking in the opposite direction when that stone was thrown.  Or maybe God told someone to build you a shelter, but they didn't.

We say, "God loves me despite my sin."  Yet we struggle to meet this expectation...that truly only comes from ourselves.  We try to earn the jewels in our crown that we're hoping to receive at the end of this test that we are desperate to pass.  Maybe He'll change His mind about us if we don't hold ourselves responsible.  Or maybe He'll take us when we fail to do these things...because He never expected us to do them in the first place.

We declare, "My God is a personal, intimate God."  However, we don't invite Him into the dark places.  We foolishly believe that these painful stains can be pretended away.  That He won't notice that part being left out.  When our skeletons arise from the murky waters, we plunge them back beneath the colorless surface...hoping to drown the truth of our sadness.  Maybe He knows these dark places, and He's just waiting for us to let him remove the sting.

We are resilient children in spite of the circumstance.  For we toil with these misinterpretations of God, yet we are still looking for the hand of a father to walk us through messy trails.  And He always takes your hand, you know.  In fact, He's been waiting for you to tangle your fingers in with His.

Don't be mistaken though.  God doesn't just want to hold your hand and walk beside you; He wants to walk within you.  He wants to feel what you feel...even if its anger, even if its pain, even if you don't want to feel.  You see, we were never expected to do this on our own.  Although, inviting God and people in is scary...its scarier to be a lonely child.  Its scarier to reach out hoping to brush your fingertips against another, and only finding emptiness.  And there never really is emptiness; you just have to take another step.

So how do we reconcile these extremes?  I don't know...it's different for everyone.  Although, I do know that you first have to recognize the conflict in the paradigm.  What do you "know", how do you "feel", and where did it go wrong?  The rest is up to you.  Just remember, the world and God are two different things.

The Burning

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uf8Fwiy0Bkc&list=PLjp0AEEJ0-fGKG_3skl0e1FQlJfnx-TJz

I heard this song tonight, and it inspired me.  Ever so gently it seeped into my mind and the crevices of my heart.  The rhythm rippled just under my skin leaving me with a sense of calm, a sense of peace.  Great change is often preluded by desolation.  For the greatest of changes are motivated by knowledge through experience, but the plot for it to occur must be leveled to build anew.  The fire burns away the faded and tattered surfaces to reveal the beauty beneath.  In the fire your weaknesses are brought to light…in the fire you come to terms with the necessity to release those weaknesses into the kindling, so strength can emerge.  Or even better, wisdom.

We will all walk through the fire and pray for the preservation of our souls.  We will pray for our souls to blossom in what is left.  Did you know there are certain plants that require fire and ash to sustain life and proliferate.  The intense heat allows the husk of the seeds to break open, so new life can rise from the seemingly unyielding ground.

We wander through the flames that lick at our sensitive skin, we'll come face to face with our fears as well.  We'll want to turn and run.  Have you ever had a burn?  Even when the actual heat source is removed, your skin continues to burn.  The pain intensifies before it gets better.  And it does get better.  So stay, despite the voice deep down screaming for you to flee.

My husband and I met with some friends, years ago, and one of the things we discussed were the doors that God sets within our paths.  These doors introduce us to more and more intimate parts of Him and reveal the love He has always had for us.  But we have allowed these pathways to get cluttered…or life has taken liberties in cluttering them for us…or both.  I remember we prayed for God to help us to sift through the clutter and clear it out of the way, so we could walk through these doorways.  I didn't know that some of the clutter would burn me…but it has, and I asked for it.  I continue to clear the litter and meet God at the door where He offers to clean my wounds and heal these new surfaces that are fully visible.  This isn't an easy journey, although it is a necessary one…an intentional one.

I don't know if you even believe in God, or even desire these meetings at the doorways, but your clutter will still be there either way.  At some point you won't be able to ignore it anymore.  It has a way of interfering with your "plans," amongst other things.  Remember there is purpose in the fire, it will burn away torment and the  pain will fade into a tingle.  You'll be left with freedom and open passage.

So, are you willing?

Truth In Fiction

We all talk story, right?  We talk openly about what we want to be seen, or understand for that matter, and we disguise what we're desperate to say, but don't quite grasp.  I love to read fiction…I find it relatable, even in its most far fetched worlds.  There are emotions spoken that one doesn't readily admit, they are raw and acceptable in the forests of fancy.

"Fiction reveals truth that reality obscures." -- Jessamyn West

Have you ever looked at a word search wracking your brain because you can't possibly find the elusive words that some stranger hid in a maze of letters?  So you flip the puzzle upside-down and the words miraculously appear.  You manipulate what is acceptable or "normal" to find the answers.

Sometimes I find my answers in fiction.  I find the emotion that I couldn't quite put my finger on, the thought articulated in such a way that I could say to myself, "that's it!"  Once I find these answers, these elucidations, I feel like I can come to terms with them and release them to the breeze that will carry them away.  The thing is, I have to take what I've discovered and do something with it.  I can't linger in the fantasy and live vicariously through the "braver than I'll ever be" heroine.

So sometimes we use fiction to explain reality.  Reality can be riddled with pressures, stress, activity, and distractions.  It can be difficult to thumb through it while we are in it.  We have to turn the puzzle upside-down to identify what reality has inevitably obscured.  The words are there, plain as day.  So we read them, accept them, and move on.  Because we are no longer staring blindly at a cage of letters that we are hoping will bring meaning to what seems to be jumbled.  We can now understand why we kept working on the puzzle in the first place.

“Fiction is like a spider's web, attached ever so lightly perhaps, 
but still attached to life at all four corners.” 
-- Virginia Woolf