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

Brick By Brick

For days now I have felt this yearning…this longing to write something.  Something of consequence, something that would release this aching that has developed in the center of my chest…in the only physical manifestation of my soul…my heart.  Sometimes I so badly want to spill, purge, completely empty myself in the hopes that I can be free.  These things that wade in the pool of my mind are things that many people struggle with.  Things that, if spoken, not only free us of our bonds, but they liberate us from a very safe, very comforting wall that we have carefully built around ourselves.  This wall has been meticulously put together.  Each brick represents a moment, a person, a word, an experience that leads us to the border of our security and implores us to place it in-between the world and ourselves.  Each brick had a purpose in the beginning, and the wall that these bricks formed turned their purpose from protection to isolation.

More and more each day I see walls.  Not necessarily my own, although they are ever present, but walls of those passing me on the street, handing back my change at the register, those avoiding my look at school, and those sitting on the curb hoping that someone would look at them without paying too much attention.

Shouldn't vulnerability be valued?  Shouldn't honesty be acceptable?  How much do we miss out on due to our inability to be exposed in any way?  What blessings do we let slip past us?  What beauty can't we see?  Who have we ignored that has the ability to change our wall into a bridge?

People want honesty, but they recoil when presented with it.  Honesty and truth are at the root of vulnerability.  Our spirit craves truth, but sometimes truth can sting…but it can sooth as well.  In fact, it will do both.

When we are wounded and our skin is red and raw it is sensitive to the elements, and even a gentle touch can send an uncomfortable jolt through our bodies.  The pain doesn't mean the end, it means healing is not only coming, but is beginning as well.

We could break down our walls in one fail swoop, but are we ready for that?  Is the world ready?  Or we could bring down our wall one brick at a time.  With as much gentleness and precision that we used to put them there in the first place.  Each brick was put up with intention and should be removed with as much intention…they do, in fact, represent our wounds.  The places beneath them will be tender, so we have to reassure the delicate places that are being exposed that a new layer of skin will smooth over its surface.  This new skin may be sensitive in the beginning, but will become tough in time.  The reminder of the injury may always be there…appearing lighter and raised.  But it won't be a ghost for  us to be haunted by.  It will be proof of our resilience, our lesson learned, and an evidence of the compassion we will forever carry to those who need it.  To those who wish to bring their own wall down, but don't believe they could survive the undertaking.

Maybe you like the fortress you have built.  Maybe you can still see the world over the edge of your tallest wall while standing on your tippy toes.  That desperate view offers you at least a little comfort.  Just know that without removing your bricks, your wall will grow taller.  There will always be injury along our paths.  No one guaranteed life would be safe or free of danger.  So, still, your wall will grow taller and wrap itself around you…barring you on all sides.  Oh, then you will be totally safe.  No one will hurt you, no one will see you, and you won't be presented with those pesky pitfalls because you will no longer be walking along a path of life.  No, you won't run into trouble…because you'll no longer move, for your wall will block every avenue.

Just consider one of your bricks.  Pick a little one, maybe one that can make a small opening when removed.  An opening big enough to see the world beyond.  When you peer through your little window, consider the beauty that comes from the ashes of those around you…consider the ashes of the little brick crumbling beneath your trembling fingers.  What will they become?  Because they are now pliant and able to be transformed into something exquisite.

(I wrote this as a guest blog on Nakia Lashaul's blog at http://nakialaushaul.blogspot.com )

Inciting Incident

Recently my husband and I found ourselves sitting in church, enjoying the gentle tug that the worship has had on our souls the past few times we've been.  They were playing my favorite song and the soft lilt of the singer's voice soothed the aches found within the folds of my heart...the places I've hidden so I can bring them out and use them as excuses at my own inclination.  Our pastor interrupted the song...he felt that God was leading him to give us the opportunity to open ourselves and allow God to reach in and take something we needed to let go of.  My first thought; I'm fine, nothing to let go of here...  Then God, quite vividly, showed me something very specific and revealing.  Something that I hid so well that I almost didn't realize it was there, or just never recognized its origin.

My vision:  We had just returned home from Dakota's funeral in Houston.  We decided to go to church, despite our fragility.  I remembered standing in the congregation and listening to worship, but completely incapable of participating.  Not just because I was distraught, but I had no praise in me for the moment.  Breath was slowly escaping me and I was struggling with filling my lungs.  I spent most of the service with my face buried within the safety of the space between my husbands neck and shoulder.  I heard the words in the songs and the sermon of God's love, power, and joy...but I couldn't reconcile what I was hearing with what I was feeling.  Something very small and huge happened in those moments.  Bitterness was planted.  It was like a sharpie that left a tiny dot on a white t-shirt.  It started so small, but grew into a very discernible stain.  I wasn't so much angry at God as much as the world.  I was disillusioned; reality robbed my family of an innocence I hoped would linger a bit longer.

God showed me the day bitterness found a home in my heart.  He showed me how easily I welcomed it.  I guess it's easier to slip into a hole than it is to build a bridge over it.  God whispered, "That's what I want to take from you.  Will you give it to me?"  With a ragged breath I allowed God to pull it from the very air I was exhaling.  If I'm going to be totally transparent, I had been feeling the bitterness grow... I talked to Josh about how I needed to do something, that I needed to change the ways I was seeing, hearing, and remembering.  I just couldn't let go of the bitterness though.  I would say that it had its claws in me, but I think it was the other way around.  I had my own fingers rooted in bitterness.  It's kind of like when someone finds comfort in their sadness or in their anger, and letting it go becomes entirely too foreign.

Some would say, "Don't lose faith."  I haven't.  Others would say, "God gives the strongest the most."  I say that's a lie... God isn't cruel.  And there are some who say, "It'll be ok."  And I say...no it won't.  The thing is, that's ok...that it's not ok.  It's where I am, and it's where my family is.  This is a place of honesty and truth, and it's a place to start.

So, I will let go of this bitterness that I have entrapped in my fingers.  Although the remnants may take time to clean out from beneath my fingernails.

I do feel I must add though:  Faith and hope are not lost.  God doesn't give the strongest the biggest hurdles...He just doesn't work that way, so please don't say that.  And finally, IT may never be ok...but some day, we will be.

Madness In Measure

“All living things contain a measure of madness that moves them in strange, sometimes inexplicable ways. This madness can be saving; it is part and parcel of the ability to adapt. Without it, no species would survive.” 
― Yann Martel, Life of Pi

We all have a madness inside us.  It hides sometimes, however it always finds it's way to the surface.  This is the part of us that we are embarrassed of, but it's also the part that is the most "us".  You see it when you forget to check yourself when others are around.  You hear it when you're laughing so hard that you snort and wheeze.  When you laugh at your own joke, and you're all alone in your giggles, because nobody else gets it.  You feel it when the emotion that catches in your throat is too strong and you run down the street searching for solitude and scream to the heavens, because there is no one else to blame.  

I sometimes run from my madness, but it is always there...following me like a shadow that chases its maker.  

I once heard a pastor say, "you can't run away from yourself...where ever you go, there you are."  Because, in all actuality, "ourselves" our "madness" is the part of us that is the rawest and the most honest.  This part does help us adapt, because it is real and it is the truest "us" that is willing to accept who we are and what we must do to survive.  Isn't it funny that this is the very part that we apologize for the most?  We have to apologize for it though, right?  Because we can't completely control it.  No matter how hard we try to disguise it, or pretend it away, we cannot deny it.  

My madness humbles me and reminds me where I came from.  This is why I secretly cherish it...why I'll forever turn red-faced by its inevitable appearance, but never be able to let it go.  It is my "real" and what people really see on the surface is just its shabby dressings.  Because my madness gives me permission to guffaw at what is truly funny and tear at those shabby dressings that you all see, when I truly despair.  It is also the part that allows me to survive the unimaginable.  Only those who have met this point understand the madness that is required to do so...survive.  Yet, we have all been there...or will one day, and it is this madness, within measure, that will give us the permission necessary to unearth ourselves from the pit we're found buried in.  

Here you find the tears that transform into laughter; the sadness that finds joy in the ashes.  The torn relationships that reconcile amidst loss, because it no longer makes sense.

Oh if we could all embrace just a bit of our madness ;)

Arms Left Wanting

Almost 6 months later and here we are, all together in one place again... The elephant's in the room that everyone is aching to talk about, but terrified to expose.  We all know we all hurt, but we try to pretend that this is another regular day... it's just that it isn't.  She isn't here and it is abundantly obvious.  It's a blessing to all be together in solidarity and love.  This is just another moment for a first, and the tension is not missed, the loss is apparent, and I'm still standing there with my arms open, waiting for the hug that will never come.  My arms resign to the open air and are left wanting.

Tonight at dinner my husband, Josh, and I  were talking about goodbyes.  He mentioned how we say goodbye with the intention of seeing someone again.  When loved ones visit, you intend on the final goodbye...the one you say when everyone is heading back home... on being the best.  This is the goodbye with the longest hug and the biggest kisses.  This is the goodbye that you leave your loved ones with a show of how much you are going to miss them and how much you are looking forward to seeing them again.  It's funny how not every goodbye is treated with such reverence... After all, we are never promised tomorrow.  We'll wave, give a side hug, and say, "see you later"... but what if later doesn't come...

I know that the later of eternity always comes, that we will see our loved ones in heaven.  Sometimes that later just doesn't seem fair enough, or good enough because we want what we want now.  It's just so hard.  I imagine that the wait is like being caught on the inside of a beach break.  The wave crashes into your body, driving you into the sandy ocean floor, then lifts and tumbles you into, what seems to be, a perpetual summersault.  You're not quite prepared for the on slot, so your initial breath before being forced below the surface of the water is minimal, at best.  As you tumble, you are acutely aware of the time, and in direct contrast, completely unaware of which way is up or down.  There is a point that everyone reaches, where fear kicks in, that your body sends a signal to your brain...like a bright light flashing within the curtain of your eyelids, telling you that you have no more breath to withstand this deluge beneath the blanket of white water.  Then you find footing and the force of your legs rocket you up and out with a spray of the briny water and a desperate sucking in of oxygen.

For two years my daughter has been asking to be baptized, and for two years we have made her wait.  We just wanted to be sure that she understood what choice she was making and its importance.  This year she asked again with utter determination in her eyes.  We have had many God talks since January, and Josh and I felt she was ready.  Since she is so young our church has her fill out a pamphlet that is meant to help her understand the step she is taking.  Kirra and I were going through the pamphlet and we come to this question, "When bad things happen to you, why do you continue to follow Jesus?"  Kirra's initial answer was a classic Sunday school answer.  I had to remind her who I was, and that I don't accept Sunday school answers.  So I said to her, "Consider this year... your friends picking on you and abandoning you, and Dakota... Think about the day that you told me that you thought God was cruel for taking Dakota from us.  Why is it that you still want to hold Jesus' hand?  Why do you still want to follow Him?"  Tears fill the corners of her eyes and spill out along the side of her nose, and hang in anticipation at the edge of her chin.

"Because God told me I would see Dakota again mom.  He told me that this wouldn't be forever.  He gave me hope."  My child humbles me in the most gentle and sweetest of ways.  God has plans and I must trust Him.  He doesn't leave me empty handed; He gives me hope.  Although, the wait can be disorienting and agonizing; we will break through the surface and be met with relief and the air we were so desperately craving will fill our lungs.  So until that day comes, my goodbyes should be more reverent and my breaths will be more intentional, lest I find myself struggling beneath the force of the ocean once again.

The Wound and the Light

I read this quote this morning and it hit this very sensitive, very deep and very destitute part of my heart.

"The wound is the place where the Light enters you." - Rumi

This is so true and so "typical", right?  The very place you hurt the most and have the most pain is the place that the light will enter...it is, in all actuality, the place that needs the light.  But, it's more than that...this statement exposes the truth about healing.  It's painful...  You have to think about the things that are raw and grating at your caustic skin.  You can't come at it from another angle in hopes that the healing will happen through a gentle osmosis that makes it's way to your more severe and wounded places.  No...  Its like having to clean a wound with alcohol...scrubbing out the bacteria that threatens to infect and break down your wellbeing.  At first it stings terribly; causing your body to curl into itself in hopes of fending off the agony that is invading your, no longer, composed existence.  You scream and you rage until the cool calm of tears soak over your tender places.  Your tears clean your most agonizing parts and sooth your throat that is sore from your cries.  You no longer cry tears of bitterness, but of new beginnings and your soul will be refreshed.

If only healing can be as sweet as it sounds.  Isn't it interesting that the most necessary things in life can also be the most grievous.  But, it is what it is...right?  Your fear keeps you from sleeping...but what will bring your soul rest?  Sleep.  Your guilt keeps you from laughing...but what will bring you joy?  Forgiveness.  Your pain keeps you from living...but what will bring you peace?  Acceptance that only comes from diving into the very thing that causes your pain.  In the beginning your memories will be devastating, but as you move along the path of healing, your memories will become a cooling salve that you will hold protectively and gently, but with utter resolve that they shall never leave your tangled fingers.  Healing isn't something that just happens...its intentional.  You work at it, you fail at it and when you don't think it will ever happen...its there.  As life goes on, you'll have moments of remission...but you've been there and you will never sink below the surface of the water that threatens to drown you.  You'll rise above and walk among the waves that have been calmed by the Great Comforter.  There is a Light that you can reach and the darkness can never extinguish it, so reach for it.  Don't let fear keep you from the light.  Don't allow the pain to define you...that is a liberty that only healing can own.  Expose your wounds to the Light and grip your memories so you can withstand the sting.

Delicate, Vulnerable and Simply Overwhelmed

My niece passed away on New Year's Day...She was 8 years old.  She was sledding and went into the road, she was laughing...so happy; she didn't even see the car.  One of my biggest strengths in my life has always been belief.  Belief that everything happens for a reason and that anything has the capacity for redemption...no matter how tragic.  I still believe that, but it's in these moments that I grip that belief with angry and sometimes bitter hands.  I refuse to believe that she left this world in vain...for something to end in nothing would be a true tragedy.  Something will always remain.  It's interesting...it's like my belief is what maintains the balance, even when what keeps me grasping at the fibers of belief seems so contrary.  So here I am, refusing to let go and accepting that we may never see the answer...and doing this with deepest sadness.  Although, I know, the tender edges bordering our wounds will one day grow into a gentle ache or longing.  For now we are delicate, vulnerable and simply overwhelmed.  Today my daughter found a scrapbook page that her and her cousin made together.  At the top it said their names, followed by "Best Friends".  My heart beat against my ribs, threatening to escape.  You feel blessed to see evidence of great and beautiful moments, angry for the future moments that are now stolen away, and utterly sad for the empty chair at the table.  You battle between optimism and despair, perseverance and the desire to just give in.  You never completely fall prey to the despair nor the idea of giving in...you can't...because life keeps on going and the world stops for no one...and you are responsible for more than just your sadness.  I imagine, as a mother or a father, your children are attached to your heart by, what appears to be, a fragile piece of string.  You come to learn that, this seemingly delicate string bears a strength that is paramount to any other...it's never meant to be severed.  So when your child is taken from you...the cord doesn't merely break, it takes a piece of you with it.  What I find devastatingly beautiful is...that piece of you didn't actually belong to you...it belongs to her and she had to take it with her.  She can't be separated from you...she needs you, so she took you with her.  She took the part reserved for her.  And, one day, she will replace that piece when you find her in your embrace once again.

So, having said all of that, I am asking those of you who stumble across this message, please pray for my sister and brother-in-law and their two other children.  Pray that they can make their way through this labyrinth of emotions, that they can take each step knowing that they are not alone and that God will catch them when they don't feel like they can walk any longer.  Pray that they can laugh freely and without regret. Pray for strength for tomorrow and the next day then the next and on and on.

“It is a curious thing, the death of a loved one. We all know that our time in this world is limited, and that eventually all of us will end up underneath some sheet, never to wake up. And yet it is always a surprise when it happens to someone we know. It is like walking up the stairs to your bedroom in the dark, and thinking there is one more stair than there is. Your foot falls down, through the air, and there is a sickly moment of dark surprise as you try and readjust the way you thought of things.” 
― Lemony Snicket, Horseradish: Bitter Truths You Can't Avoid

Questions, Questions, Questions

What are we willing to do with our lives?  How far are we willing to stretch?  I guess that depends on what we treasure...what we believe.  Is our belief based on a moment and then it fades with the passing breeze?  Do we stand on a firm system because it is all we know and we are afraid to step out into a world that may question us and we aren't sure if we can answer?  Or are we just standing in solidarity?  Are our beliefs based on bits and pieces of the world that we thought would fit best configured in a way that catered to our immediate wants and desires?  Or......is our belief based upon something that didn't only peek the very base of our nature but it became a very personal experience that not only affected us personally, but it also monumentally affected the world around us and how we viewed this place that was previously met in shades of gray...at least up until this point?  Belief is a funny thing and our willingness can be fickle.  When we are presented with a challenge, one that could truly cost us, are we willing to step out? On the other side of the spectrum, what part of our beliefs are we willing to push aside or hide in the shadows to achieve artificial rewards?  When we pick and choose what we want to believe, are we ever resting comfortably with adequate trust on something fully solid? Or are we slightly tense with the idea of this novice who built this tower we find ourselves in?  What are we really looking for?  What do we really want?  Do we want what is tangible or do we want something bigger that doesn't quite fit in the palm of our hands?

I think we don't ask ourselves enough questions.  I think we sometimes find a rhythm in our life and we start to get comfortable in our rhythm...the repetition can be soothing, if not monotonous.  Many of us find ourselves stuck in monotony and we have grown used to our complacency.  This doesn't mean we're lazy...it just means that we stopped asking questions.  We're still moving and working, playing and doing...but are we thinking?  Are we asking the good questions...the important ones?

Hmmmmmm

These really are the things that run through my head when I observe and experience the world around me.  I ask myself these questions.  I want to be constantly aware of the path beneath my feet.  This doesn't mean I think I'm doing anything right...I just want to keep myself in check.  I have built my tower, but that doesn't mean it's complete, or that it will ever be complete for that matter.  We all have to be carpenters, but where are we gathering our knowledge?  Are we feeding off of wisdom or are we cutting corners and just looking for immediate results?

Hmmmmmmm

Where does your willingness take you and what's the foundation it's built upon?  How much do you trust it?

Not Everybody Fits Under That Blanket

Have you ever noticed how we all like to make statements that we think will cover everyone?  Have you ever noticed that the blanket is way too small?  Unfortunately for those of us who make these blanket statements, which is more than likely all of us, we end up looking the fool.  We all get so caught up in trying to be everybody else, that we've forgotten about how we are all made uniquely.  We generalize one another, but not everyone fits under the same blanket.  Yes, there are similarities, familiarities, commonalities but there are also idiosyncrasies.  You know what is more attractive?  Our differentness...  Even if you don't like what is different, it doesn't matter...because that "different" may not belong to you, or me for that matter.  If we try to fit people groups under these blankets, that we've spent WAY too much time stitching together, we end up stripping each individual of what essentially makes them "them".  It doesn't matter what your blanket statement is about...whether you're blanketing a race together, homosexuals together,  political groups together, religious groups together or nationalities together...what you have done is created a faceless vessel that you can fill with whatever predetermined assumption that you wish to.  Do we know the individual's story?  Obviously not, otherwise we wouldn't clump them into a pile and cover them with a very minimal and jaded, if not completely false, blanket...  We've all been put there.  I don't care to be clumped into the "dumb blonde" category...but my hair color puts me there and I am treated as such.  I am a Christ follower and some choose to clump me with those who have a very narrow and legalistic point of view...but do I belong there?  I certainly hope not...  What about those close to me that are ridiculed, ostracized or just treated "differently" because of the blanket that they've been forced under?  We all want to be recognized for who we are...not who others think we are, based upon what they "believe" to be true but actually isn't so.  Yes, how we are born, where we are born, what we look like, what we believe and so on, makes us who we are...but not all by itself.  It takes all of it and our personal experiences to build the reflection that we see in the mirror.  So, I guess what I want to say is...if I have done this, I'm sorry.  May I forever be convicted of the reality of what doing so would mean to an individual.  Everyone has a story that is uniquely theirs and theirs alone...it is what makes them "them"...it is what makes me "me".  We should all be convicted of this reality, lest we find ourselves bound in a blanket of assumptions.

One

I know this man...mio marito...mio cuore (my husband...my heart).  The fibers of our souls are stitched together.  I know this because when we are separated, I can feel the gentle thread stretching and the strain on the seams.  Our love is not perfect, there is only one love that can withstand that title, but our love is precious in it's imperfections.  I could say that we know each other in the fullest, but that would be a farce.  We will discover one another every year we walk along our path...we will see more of the hidden, more of the light and dark.  This is where the amazing imperfection comes to find it's beauty...we will still love one another.  We will never unravel our fingers from the hand of the other.  We will stand firm in what we saw in our innocence...in the very beginning.  That he fills in where I lack and I do the same for him.  Then there are places where neither of us can fill the gap and God makes His home there.

One day we will look back at the tattered map that reveals every step, every dance, every word, every misgiving and every forgiveness.  This map will teach our children what it looks like to walk the road to the "Oneness" that God promises us.  You don't just become One when the ring slides smoothly into the crook of your finger.  That takes years...learning and growing never comes on a straight and un-littered path.  I can't wait to be old and wrinkly, staring into my husband's eyes...remembering when each line in time appeared in the corners of them.  Looking back and thinking, "how did all of life happen in such a short time" because time is relative - and it will be hard to grasp where it all went and how we managed.  We will laugh at the ridiculous and share in sorrows that we carried one another through.  We will know what God meant when He said that we would become One Flesh.  We will feel each others' pain and we will relish in each others' joy...because it will be our own.

"Love is like some fresh spring, first a stream and then a river, changing its aspect and its nature as 
it flows to plunge itself in some boundless ocean, where restricted natures only find monotony, but where great souls are engulfed in endless contemplation."...Honore' De Balzac

Love's Letter to Hate

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=E7xUZkKd58c
               (The Ballad of Love and Hate...Avett Brothers)

I love this song by the Avett Brothers.  It's interesting to ponder the relationship that Love has with Hate.  Love is writing to Hate, saying she's coming back and can't wait to see him.  There's a part where they talk about Love flying above and the feeling one gets from her and when she comes down...then they talk about Hate meeting strangers on the street and greeting each one.  Love spreads a feeling of joy and hope and starts relationships with those she comes in contact with.  Hate weedles into those who pass by and moves on...

What I love most is where Love finally sees Hate and offers nothing but forgiveness and herself.  Hate is angry and drunk, but when he sees Love, he falls at her feet.  It's interesting...Love and Hate run parallel to one another, they're just going in opposite directions.

<-----------------------------
------------------------------>

Love is waiting for Hate to turn around and come back to her, so she can embrace him and give him hope.

Have you ever thought about how limited our perception of Love actually is.  We judge the level of Love that God has for us based on our own experiences...and frankly our own experiences of love are severely meager in comparison to the Love that is greater...the Love that created...the Love that died and overcame.  Real love brings hope and healing.  Real love is something that would bring tears to your eyes, merely because of it's beauty and the thought of losing it is devastating.

I once heard a speaker from XXX Church say, "You can't blame the dark for being dark when no one is willing to shine some light in the room."  So can you blame the hateful for being hateful when no one has been willing to love them?

It's a Part of Living In the Fish Bowl

It's interesting, life...I'm good at forgiveness, right?  Then the world offers up new and different opportunities, and I find myself almost refusing to do so.  Our hearts are fickle things.  We know the right thing to do and we do it...or we "say" that we do it, but do we own it and possess the truth of it?  That is the struggle, right?  I know what is said, "to grow and move on, you must forgive.  Forgiving is for you, not the one who has harmed you...it's letting go, so they no longer have power over you."  What is this strange desire we sometimes have to dwell and linger in our pain?  Is it the feeling of entitlement?  The chance to hone your ability to point your finger, releasing yourself of any and all responsibility?  Or do we think that we do not deserve the chance to live without burden or blame?  It's funny, the real answer is to drop all of these rediculous ponderings and delegations of guilt.  The finger should never be pointed at one person...in fact, finger pointing is rude...isn't that what we were always told?  The point isn't about placing blame or having the one who "is at fault" to suffer the consequences, it's about learning, growing and loving.  All three of these things, in it of itself, is challenging.  But doing so reaps rewards of magnitudes unknown.  If it was easy to do, where would the reward be?  I'm gonna go back to the quote about what we've all heard that forgiveness is about...but just one part, "Forgiveness is for you, not the one who has harmed you, it's letting go so they no longer have power over you."  This is true, but there's something to remember...forgiveness IS for them too.  I'd like to think my act of forgiving is just for me, so I can move on and live a happy life...never having to think about what happened ever again.  But is that truly forgiving?  Aren't I to put others above myself?  Don't I have to be last to be first?  DANG that is hard!!!!  I'm only being honest...I'm no saint and neither is anyone else.  Are the saints really saints or are they just real people with real problems that had their journey written in the Bible?  They didn't always do the right thing, but they loved God through it.  They didn't have relationships figured out, but they tried and with humility.  They were real and God chose them.  We are all a part of the book of life and God is our audience...what will the reveiws sound like?  When God turns the last page of my memoir of my life here on earth, will He say, "Why couldn't you do for them, what I did for you?" or will He say, "Well done, my good and faithful servant?"  This is my choice after all...to choose what I want to hear from the only critic that matters.  I am, after all, just another fish in the bowl desperate to see the ocean....

I actually wrote this a while ago...I found myself looking back and realizing where I was and where I am now.  I still feel like all of what I said is true and real, but I'm finding myself slightly on the other side.  I feel like I left out a very important part in the saga of forgiveness...you can't force it.  Yes, we should do it, for all parties involved, but you can't try to make it happen too soon.  You have to go through the process and forgiveness is part of the process of healing.  It's the part that transforms you from the survivor to the overcomer.  It's integral, but it is a process.  We'll all be a victim of something, then we will survive and we will overcome.  I'm still in the fish bowl and I long for the ocean, but I'm no longer desperate.

Ladies...

So, the other day I was on Pinterest, yes I love Pinterest and I am not ashamed :), anyways...someone had pinned a picture of a woman in a bikini who was over weight.  Let me first make a point in telling you that she looked phenomenal...I don't know how much she weighed...she looked fantastic.  The comments following this pin gave huge insight into the world that we females have created for ourselves.  One comment talks about how her weight isn't healthy, another calls her a "real woman", the following comment is of a woman who is offended by the "real woman" comment.  This ridiculous stream went on forever.  I don't think one of those women ever thought once that the woman in the picture may possibly see what they have said.  OR that the woman who posted this picture was over weight herself and felt encouraged by someone who was happy with their body.  They never thought about how they may make that woman feel.  What are we arguing about?!  Why couldn't it have just been a picture of a beautiful woman albeit her weight?  This picture had nothing to do with comparison, it was about the freedom of being not only comfortable in your own skin, but beautiful in it.  Why do we do this to each other?  And its not just the weight thing...its EVERYTHING.  She's a working mom...she's a stay-at-home mom.  Let me say, I have been both of these and both come with their own insecurities.  The working mom struggles with not staying at home and the stay-at-home mom struggles with the fact that she isn't bringing anything in monetarily or living up to the "modern woman" standard.  This may be a generalization, but I think you get my point.  We are already our own worst enemies...do we really need to be that for each other also?  Can I just say, where ever you are, it's ok...unless it's not, then you should make a change.  If your unhappy, scratch that, unfulfilled/dissatisfied/discontent then maybe something needs to give.  But if life circumstances or some shrewd decision making along with the idea of "hey I wanna be there" put you where you are and you are doing the best with what you got, then you are doing what you need to right where you need to be.  So, my first point here is,  give yourself a break...be confident...and STOP COMPARING YOURSELF!!!  Second point...Ladies!!!  LAY OFF ONE ANOTHER, WILL YA!!!!

Mom #1 sends her child to public school, Mom #2 to private school, Mom #3 home-schools her children.  Guess what, they all love their children and they are all trying to give their children the best they can and they all came to these educational decisions for many different reasons.  Why can't we just be ok with that?

We should be lifting one another up, not belittling or insulting the other to make us feel like we are doing the "right" thing because "they" aren't.  Who's to say that my "right" thing is your "right" thing.  We may not be saying some of these negative things to the person's face, but are we saying it to someone?  If it's coming out of our mouths, period, we are perpetuating the problem.  It just makes me so sad to see the lack of support.  Life isn't about whose got "it" and who doesn't.  It's about relationships and what we make of them.  We can't walk around with our insecurities leading us.  We should be walking around saying, "This is who I am, it just is."  Then we should be going straight up to another woman and say, "You are beautiful and you are doing your best.  Good job!"

Strength vs. Fragility

Strength vs. Fragility...

Throughout my lifetime I have thought of myself as a strong person.  I thought I was strong due to my life experiences, traumas and challenges.  I really thought that nothing could really break me...maybe I would struggle, but not completely fall apart.  I found that what I thought was strength was merely an illusion.  Life caught up and I found myself broken...again, but more so.  I was grasping at the pieces that were surrounding me, desperate to put them back together.  Come to find out, you can't put them back the way they were...sometimes the pieces change shape and you have to make something new.  It's discovering what new is and what is it supposed to look like.  Time has passed and I've finally grasped who I am...who I've become, and I'm in a good place.  So, I asked my husband what he thought of me...and his response, "You're still fragile".  So here it is..."strength" is relative and "fragility" is reality.  Life is fragile, moods are fragile...relationships are fragile.  All of these can be broken fairly easily.  We were never meant to be completely independent when it came to strength, or anything of this world for that matter.  We were meant to rely on His strength.  It's a freedom that I welcome...I don't have to be the strong one, I don't have to have all of the answers, I don't have to always say the "right" thing.  I just have to trust that whatever happens, it's redeemable.  This freedom does come with a price.  You have to be ok with being vulnerable.  You wanna know something?  We are all vulnerable; we are all fragile.  Just because we put on a good face and convince ourselves and those around us otherwise, doesn't make it true.  We will break, but we will also be put back together.  We will be hurt, but we will be healed.  We will struggle, but we will also learn.  We will change and we will never be the same...and that's ok.