Lovers of God are Better Lovers

The dance with God is a dance with the invisible.  It’s like I’m up in my room, house empty but for the dog, and I’m folding towels. The giant trees out below my window along greenbelt are heavy under the weight of rain that won’t slow.  I hear it strong on the roof above me, and against the windowpane.  The giant mound of laundry.  The relentless rain.  The bowing trees.  And I sting to the bone with the goodness of God.  There between the bed and the bookcase, me and the white towel, we dance.  We dance with God.  It’s a celebration of all that is.  And I know He is.  I’m alive with God, celebrating the gift of the laundry, the rain, the bowing trees – the song playing in my veins. 

God and I could be different.  I could be mad I’m stuck with all these chores.  I could be mad about the carving across my neck, twice.  Or my missing breast.  I could be giving him a list of what isn’t right with my life and what I want from him.  But I have.  I have been mad and angry and said four letter words – and yes, said them to God.  But last time I couldn’t pray – for days – … I had no strength and couldn’t think a clear thought, He prayed for me, and let me lean without words, didn’t offer up a thing.  And so this is how our relationship has become much more.  I’ve learned to receive. 

Yes, I know if I love God I will do x, y and z.  However, I’m not sure that matters as much to God as my receiving his love.  And so this round of cancer has been just goofy.  Neck all swollen from ear and down across the front like a crime scene, I’ve been singing every chance I get.  Compiling every good jazz standard I can find, fighting the dead numb slab of left face-crazy feeling of wanting to crawl out of skin, I am learning lyrics.  Reading stories of the writers, most of them immigrants.  Old movies.  Talks with friends.  Gluing wooden flowers with one.  Coloring with another.  Dutch Blitz with the kids.  Holding my adored husband close.  Up much too late talking.  Exploring who might be hanging from my family tree and his.  Laughing about my latest cooking attempts.  Just being together.  And taking in these kindnesses of God. 

If I have to do some horrid repeat three times, it means I’m suppose to be learning something.  The thing I’m learning third time round is that my love for God, really loving anyone is so much more about receiving … take in the beauty, the presence, the treasure of another more than anything else.  And no, receiving is not being a selfish taker.  That’s different, and for another blog.  

C.S. Lewis once said:

“…you must have a capacity to receive,

or even omnipotence can’t give.”

The rain, it comes.  The heaviness – bending the life beneath it.  And in the bowing there is a receiving.  God gifts, they come sometimes in a rugged downpour.  It’s just right that I give nothing much and lean.  Just right to just lean.  And so I do.

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Ann, My Blind Roommate

Ann was my blind roommate.  Not blind.  Just set-up.  You know, like a blind date. I think I might have met her once, for about a minute in some cafeteria in Upper State New York a summer before, but that story is for another time.  Other than that, I’m sure we were complete strangers.  Her sister Barbara was a friend of mine (still is!).  I’d been to Barb’s apartment before and remember thinking ‘wow, how amazing to live in such a nice place’.  It was a second story flat set back off the street, above a shaded grassy patch and home to a large tree or two (ok, I’m not a details person).  The apartment was just across the street from the Walla Walla College campus where I attended.  If you could have seen the apartment I was “wow-ing’, you’d chuckle, but for a college kid who had lived in some motley places, you’d understand.  One spring day while I was visiting Barb at her apartment she asked me if I’d like to live there, and room with her sister Ann the following year.  Barb was leaving/graduating, and Ann needed a roommate.  Barbara was one of those people super easy to be around – and I imagined her sister to be the same, so took the chance and said I’d do it.  With no small amount of anxiety, I agreed, knowing sisters can be as different as night and day.

What I don’t think I told Barbara was that I was holding my breath – hoping everything would work out.  Not just regarding Ann, but due to my own situation.  Although I wanted to live in a normal apartment with a pre-arranged roommate, and make plans for the year ahead, my actual life never looked like that.  Every quarter I’d find myself sitting in the financial aid office an hour or two waiting my turn, hoping and praying that Cassie or Doug  – the two persons managing the financial aid office – would pull out of a hat some random grant or loan, making it possible for me to attend college yet one more Quarter.  Every nickel I made working on grounds, vacuuming the halls of the girls dorm, and all other income went to paying for college.  I didn’t make enough to afford it, so every Quarter they let me in felt like a giant miracle from God.  Housing and roommates came last.  

Over the summer, I remember looking at my things, a few ratty Norman Rockwell pictures torn out of a calendar for the walls, some black-bottomed pans, a thinned cotton bedspread but white and cheerful enough, no dresser but a mattress for the floor, … I wondered how Barbara’s sister would feel about moving in with Miss Nobody. 

For no particular reason Cassy or Doug, I don’t remember which, decided they had the money for me to attend, and that I’d be fine in that nice apartment, and so there I was unpacking my few well worn things when Ann arrived.  I don’t remember our first words, or even remember when she arrived, but one of the first sweet things she said to me was exclaiming how much she loved the (thumbtacked) Norman Rockwell pictures on the wall.  I couldn’t believe it.  She could enjoy simple unconventional ways of decorating, of being, and could find beauty all over the place in things that didn’t cost a dime.  The relief nearly suffocated me.  To be accepted is one thing, but to be enjoyed as is, now that’s another.

The blind roommate turned out to be a very good one.  Not only did she not care one bit about my worn out things, she enjoyed my ability to make something out of nothing in the kitchen.  I enjoyed her ability to read a recipe and bake.  She was adventurous, was willing to do crazy things like camp out last minute on some country church grounds (because it sat beside a river).  I think the sprinklers came on, and she was a good sport about that too.   

Ann loved having friends over, and was quite the host.  Because of her, our apartment was filled to overflowing with friends and friends of friends and a few others.  Engineering guys from across the street would smell the chili in the crock pot and meander across the road, up the stairs to see what’s cooking.  Students whose parents had been missionaries – Ann had grown up in Bangladesh.  Her former classmates from a college in England she’d attended.  Ole friends from Blue Mountain Academy in Pennsylvania.  I added my collection of grounds worker pals, class mates, a few friends from Mount Ellis (Bozeman, Montana)….  Between the two of us, our apartment was a preverbal zoo!

Ann was an unusual mix of fun and studious.  I struggled with college, good grades did not come easy for me.  I had to read and re-read anything I took in.  I had already decided that I couldn’t have fun and do well in college at the same time.  This was due to that fact that the students I’d known up to this point were either fun or or did well in school, but never both.  Not Ann.  She knew how to shift gears from fun times to getting things done, and back to fun again – as needed.  I was inspired.  Ann did need less sleep then I, but she was always respectful about her sleepyhead roommate and studied late into the night without disturbing my rest.  Ann was also more tidy than I, and was just gracious as I struggled to keep things up, as we had to – we had company morning to night. 

The year I met my husband and fell in love, I was rooming with Ann.  She listen to all my star eye’d feelings months on end.  We listened to each other.  She was gracious when the guy I was in love with reciprocated.  Didn’t matter what the challenge in life was, when things were going well for me, and not for her, she was gracious.  That’s a great word for Ann.  Gracious.  Just a gracious and dear friend. 

Thirty some years have passed.  Ann is more dear to me then before.  She has been the best auntie to our kids, though not a blood aunt.  She’s been in our lives a couple times a year their entire lives.  Although she eventually moved to Cambodia, she flies in to see her folks, sisters and brother and comes to see us – and often.  Which means the kids have years of memories with Auntie Ann. 

I would have never picked Ann out myself.  We are as optimist as two persons can be.  She has traveled all over the world her entire life.  I’ve been nowhere other than the US, Canada, Hawaii and Tijuana, but mostly stay home.  Book learning comes easy to her.  She flies through books and tests well.  I struggle to get through part of a book.  I test poorly.  She likes numbers.  I like words.  Not true.  She likes words too… and reads more books in a year than I will in a lifetime.  She bakes.  I dump cook.  She is single.  I’m married with four kid.  She is a saver.  I’m a squanderer.  She reads music.  I play by ear.  She’s Adventist.  I’m not. 

How does one choose a roommate?  Although Ann and I are as as different as wind and sea, the things that matter most we have in common.  Ann gets how much I love God, how much I hate pretension, how much I value simple hospitality, how much I love vulnerability and authenticity.  We both love to grow our spirits and shrink the ever-toxic “self”.  We both love family and friends, love something from nothing, both love learning and exploring new ideas, love color, love to laugh, love a spontaneous adventure.  I have a memory of one of my very grown up kids being talked into a shopping cart by Auntie Ann, her pushing said child speed of light through a parking lot, both howling with laughter.  

My blind roommate.  I think I was the blind one.  Would never have thought she’d consider a friendship with me as she was traveled, smart and capable.  You know, I’ve never seen my face, and you haven’t seen yours.  Only a reflection.  If the reflectant is warped, all that is seen is a twisted view of ourselves.  That makes each-other that very important mirror.  Ann has been one of the kindest mirrors I’ve ever looked into.  A mirror that smiles at my burnt attempts at soup.  Listens when I’m miserable and self-centered.  Is able to separate her own opinions from her heart – a heart that cares for me more than cares to be right or have the last word.  

Ann

The wind and sea.

Which one are you?

Which one is me?

My blind roommate.

A kindly mirror.

Thank you gracious friend

I see.

 

Almost Like We Matter To Each Other

Church campout marks a summer that has come, will soon be gone.  Only a few weeks and school will start again.  Here I am, sitting on the edge of summertime, at the edge of wild, sitting out of doors in blue collapsable chair at Howard Miller Steelhead Park.  River passes by on one side, can’t be heard for the breeze that messes up the leaves above my head, grand mountains on the other.  The wind, it hints at cooler days coming.  And still no leaves have fallen.  The kids whiz past me on scooters, bikes and feet.  The couples pass by, a dog on leash, lazy like, they walk about, talking to each other.  Some stop here and say a hello.  Almost like we matter to each other.  As if we do. 

And then I stop the writing for she arrives.  The girl on the edge, the wild one.  The one whose internal stimuli keeps her lips forever moving, with no words.  The searching eyes.  The difficulty tracking a conversation for the ever-conversing voices in her head.  I matter to her, I know I do, though she keeps me at bay, holds me at a distance, paranoia yanking her about to the ones who care for her most.  She asks if she can join us early next morning for the hike.  I don’t know if she will make it, it’s 10 miles round trip, an entire day of mountain-goat work.  In morning we will see.

Sun comes up just now, camp mostly quiet, she arrives, pink cheeked and tentative.  I want her to come along and still I think it’s too much.  So do her voices.  She backs out at last minute.

All day long I hike, me and my 8 year old Butterfly.  Friends along too.  All day long I climb higher and higher.  Legs and lungs they work to move us along ridges, beside fields of flowers, tree tops and shifting stones.  All day long, searching for bathroom among the hiding places.  All day catching a glimpse of the sanity a mountain-top brings.

A hike to heaven and back, that’s what we do.  End of day picked up by adored husband and lanky son of boredom.  Down an hour of washboard road, we stop along the way to buy some ice cream for little miss who managed the 10 miles of all day.  Back at camp, sticky peaches are my pick-me-up, and a hot shower to wash the layers of dirt off tired body.

It’s Sunday Morning.  I’m in the park block-house freshening up again, the community place of washing.  The place that smells of soap and mud.  Caring friend comes in, too, looking rather tired.  She sees me, needs just a minute to talk.  Shares how the wild one we both love screamed terrifying into the night.  Voices, forever the voices.  Tired eyes tell of the many who gather in the night to pray as she struggled on.  Said they had almost come to find me in the night. 

I am sad.  I hate the struggles of mental illness.  Mind that convinces the tormented one that those who love her are not safe.  Convinces mind that medicine is not safe.  That doctors and therapists are not safe.  Nothing we can do now.  We say a prayer and off to outdoor church service. 

Pastor is real.  During service shares his struggles with depression.  At one point in the sermon he asks all those who have experienced depression to raise their hands.  A few raise their brave and vulnerable hands.  Me too.  While we sit listening to a sermon on mental health, just beyond the crowd sits a mentally ill girl, tent collapsed with all her belongings inside the tent.  Caring friend comes and finds me again, tells me wild one is frozen in place, sitting criss-cross applesauce staring at tent full to the brim with no poles, caved in upon her things.  I slip away with caring one, hoping to help. 

Talking does nothing but make her lips move with no sound to match.  When I tell her I can’t hear her, she shouts that she loves us and needs her space.  I tell her “No rush, we don’t have to check out till afternoon, will help in any way I can, if you want me to help.”

There she sits, all through the sermon on mental illness.  Still like death in front of downed tent.  There my heart sits, beside her, but far across the expanse.  After the sermon I find a friend who hurt for wild one, too.  Sometimes we say “lets pray” with the thought that it’s not really doing anything.  Our prayer beside handsome mountain, our prayer along wide river – the river we can’t hear for the noisy trees above us, we pray our prayer anyway – because God has good hearing.  And as our prayer comes to a close, from a distance we see caring heart as she makes her way across the grass.  She gets closer, we see the tears on her tired cheeks. She tells us what God did for wild one.  He sent a small red headed boy, a boy much like the boys wild one once taught in Sunday School in days when her mind was well, to ask if he could help.  And she let him. Together they set up the tent, emptied it out, packed up her things, packed up the tent, and she was righted enough to make her way back home again.

Here I am, sitting on the edge of summertime, at the edge of wild, sitting out of doors in blue collapsable chair at Howard Miller Steelhead Park.  River passes by on one side, can’t be heard for the breeze that messes up the leaves above my head, grand mountains on the other.  The wind, it hints at cooler days coming.  And still no leaves have fallen.  The kids whiz past me on scooters, bikes and feet.  The couples pass by, a dog on leash, lazy like, they walk about, talking to each other.  Some stop here and say a hello.  Almost like we matter to each other.  As if we do. 

    

Laundry Day

Today is laundry day.  I’m rich. 

I have more clothes than I can wear in a month. 

I have a wash machine.  Push a couple buttons, it does it all.  Gently, and without shredding thin the garments. 

I have a dryer – not a rope that hangs among the trees in our back yard. 

I have a dresser to put stacks of pants and pj’s in, drawers that shut just nice, and a closet. 

I have a bug and moth free home, most of the time:) 

An indoor sink with plumbing (ashamed to say, but 5 of them). 

Sweet tap water for drinking down. 

Barefeet cool on hardwood while I fold towels, pile up the socks and shake the shirts. 

I sometimes complain about laundry.  And why?   

As a kid it was bags and bags to the laundromat. 

The generation before that, Grandma used a wringer washer.

Before that, hours at a time, hands in boiling water, washed in tub and on the board. 

Great Great Grandma Amanda lost her soldier husband Peter in the Civil War.  She had two little girls Margaret and Melinda to raise, alone.  Despite the kindness of the extended family, nothing could be done to provide Amanda and the girls an easy life. At first Amanda was a single mom with two small children.  I can’t imagine tackling the wash, let alone having to track down enough wood to keep her little family warm, pack the water alone, manage it all, and grieve.  The 1860’s were hard.  The 1860’s life was even harder as a single parent no matter how effective the latest wash powder.  

Wash Powder, Silvers 1866

0432 b1860 Melinda Akles Degman

It was wintertime.  Amanda’s youngest, Melinda made her way toward school.  Up the steps in through the door, she removed her wraps.  She was a tiny 4th grade girl.  Her feet still cold from the walk, she took her seat and waited for the teacher.  In the hussle of morning-time, somebody bumped the teacher’s desk, the kerosene lamp swayed and toppled to the floor, shattering into pieces. When the teacher returned, she went into a rage. Who had done it? The students pointed to Melinda. The teacher rushed at her, grabbed hair, pulled her to the floor and bashed her head against the metal shoe scraper that sat beside the door. Repeatedly smashing Melinda’s head, the teacher ripped out handfuls of her auburn hair.  The attack caused Melinda to go to bed, and remain there for over a year. She had difficulty reading and learning.  

Melinda’s Father, a good man, had helped his brother through college before the war.  After Peter died, his brother, Uncle Charlie as the family called him, decided to give back to Peter’s girls what had been given to him. Amanda’s oldest Margaret went to live with her uncle and family.  She was given an education through college. This was in a day when most men were unable to attend college, and rarely a women. Melinda stayed home with her Mother and Stepfather and learned to be a housekeeper and cook.  No telling the tole the brain injury had taken, and the opportunities lost.  Her education had stopped with the 4th grade thrashing. 

I don’t know how Melinda managed her life as a woman. How had she washed clothes, baked before sunrise, and through the long hot days?  Had she managed to wash from her spirit what the Civil War had taken?  Had she let wash away the brutality of a monster teacher – enough to raise four daughters and send them off to school each day?  A young bride’s fear of marriage, honeymoon night hid in darkness under bed, husband finding her and pulling her out?  Had she been able to scrub hard against the shame of being simple when husband was smart and able, educated, Justice of the Peace, blacksmith, Sunday School teacher, ran the theater and performed Shakespeare?  Oh, did I mention his handwriting looked like art?  

Some stains run even deeper. What did it take to get up and do another day with the guilt she carried – she too had allowed their 16 year old daughter Grace to attend an evening Vaudeville play at the downtown theatre – on way home was raped by No-Name Vaudeville actor – left pregnant – Melinda’s oldest daughter’s fiance and his brother late of night tracked down the No-Name, a murder, a body thrown into the swirling darkness of the Missouri.  Vigilantes left town for months – just in case. Small town. Questions asked.  It was too much for capable talented husband.  He walked away, too.  For good.  Too much for their daughter Grace.  She fled to places far from home, except for a visit 40-some years later.  The Grace they knew never did return.  

Melinda, alone in Brownville to provide for her daughters was offered a job by a family friend to be the hotel cook, feeding the men who came down the Missouri on steamboats. Single parenthood in those days meant poverty. Melinda’s youngest, Muriel, told how she owned one dress for ever’day, one dress for good.  She and her sister Alice and their Mother Melinda lived above the hotel.  No electricity, no indoor plumbing, no toilet, tub or sink, no wash machine, no buggy, bike or car, no bug spray, I could go on but you get the idea.

The childhood injury, referred to in those days as brain fever, left Melinda tired much of the time.  Despite her deficiencies, she was a very hard worker. She was remembered for working well past exhaustion, insisting that everything be tidy, making the following day a new start.  She didn’t let the hard things that had happened to her harden her.  Brownville though rural was not all small-town loveliness. Prostitutes provided services for the men who came through.  The townsfolk wouldn’t speak to the girls, or have anything to do with them.  Great Grandma Melinda reached out, they lived just down the street from where she was.  Knowing there was talk in town of her visits with them, she did not let that stop her. She took the girls food.  When they became sick – as they often did, she would tend to them. I suppose she had learned that life can either stain you hateful ugly or shine you.  Muriel once asked her “Momma, how did you keep going?”  Melinda thought a minute and then said “When there’s something that has to be done, God gives you the strength”.  

 

0433

For Grandma Muriel, the Wringer Washer was a huge improvement but still required handling every item. Wash was scalded clean, sent through the ringer over and over, then hung on a line for the breeze to toss about and the sun to brighten. Years before, she washed on the board for ‘rich folks’  leaning heavy over the hot tub for hours, hands all-day-long in abrasive brine and boiling water… one of the many ways she managed to make a living for she and her four children as her husband was out staining up the world, and eventually abandoned the family to his carefree ways. 

 

Laundry day for Mom with all it’s update conveniences was still exhausting.0179For a couple years there, she had three babies in cloth diapers and plastic pants.  And no wash machine.  I call my sisters and I the Irish triplets.  3 girls in 2 1/2 years. Boyl_2012-593 I can not imagine. Mom was a teacher and had to grade papers when she wasn’t at the school. As my sisters and I got older we’d work the laundry together.

 

For all the laundry days

for times this life has rung us out

for the swirling darkness

the abrasive cleansing

hung out to dry

for all to see

we take our form

and find our place once more

It’s laundry day,

am rich!

 

 

 

A Hate Bond

Early morning light, the words I’m reading give me a bit of a start. 

“Then the entire council took Jesus to Pilate, the Roman governor. … ,..Pilate sent him to Herod Antipas, because Galilee was under Herod’s jurisdiction, and Herod happened to be in Jerusalem at the time.  ….. Herod and his soldiers began mocking and ridiculing Jesus.  Finally they put a royal robe on him and sent him back to Pilate.  (Herod and Pilate, who had been enemies before, became friends that day.)”  Luke 23:11 and 12.

Became friends that day?!  Wow.  A hate bond.  Bonded by mutual wrongdoing, tearing the life of another to pieces – together.  Bible now placed beside me, I stop still and frozen.  I’ve felt it so many times.  The collaboration of darkness, and the bond it forms.  I guess I’ve never noticed it so boldly stated in the Bible. 

It’s easy to spot this in the shadows – world of drugs.  The lonely kid at school gets befriended by the users, and before long the lonely kid isn’t lonely anymore, and is also mostly gone, sucked into the vortex of death. 

I’ve seen it in friendships.  An irritation if I can’t add to the hate that’s being spewed.  Friendship lost because she hates and I don’t.   I’m thought to be not loyal. 

In marriage, I’ve seen a bond of love that circles wagons around contempt toward a common hated other. I’ve heard it said “When they’re not commiserating, they’re not happy” 

I’ve seen it in myself.  With a certain someone, no matter how long it’s been since we talk, it’s the same go around, it’s what our friendship consists of. 

I’ve seen it in churches.  What unites the brothers and sisters is the eternal spy-glass fixed on sinful ways of ‘them’, of course much different from the ‘us’.

And today I think about what that behavior is.  It’s hate attachment. 

Carry each other’s burdens,

and in this way you will fulfill the law of Christ. 

Galatians 6:2.

How does bonding over hate allow for bearing the burdens of the ‘them’?  Not possible.  Love means I know what your burdens are and choose to love you anyway.  It’s not easy.  Especially when you bond with another by your hate for me, finding my faults, pointing them out at every turn.  Nevertheless, Christ’s law requires that I bear your burdens. 

What are your burdens?  Truth is you don’t have to trust me for me to bear your burdens.  I can simply lift up what I think I see in you… ask God to lessen your struggles, tell Him I can’t get close but want to love, even from a distance.  God will honor that request.   

Micah was a disliked fellow who had to say hard things for God.  As Micah was writing down the list of despicable things the people of Israel had stooped to, God asked the people a question:

He says,

“My people, what did I do to you?

    What did I ever do to make you tired of me?

    Tell me.” 

Micah 6: 3

A heart breaking question from a God who felt the disconnect, and noticed the coldness the people felt toward Him. 

If I were to answer for the people as I am one of the riffraff myself, I’d say “Oh God, I’m tired of you because I’m excited by everything that’s all about me.  I most like the company of others who enjoy the self centered life I enjoy.  You are good and kind and stand up for wrong, and do hard things, and, well, God, you are stodgy and a bore.  You make me feel dirty and rotten and very lazy.”

A truthful answer to God, and grotesque.  What I really want is to put my bond with God above my bond with power and popularity.  I want to notice each time I start forming an attachment with evildoers – and have the courage to do an about-face, sprinting full speed toward beauty and love, not hate, no matter how misunderstood and lonely that about-face might be.  Because God has done nothing to make me grow tired of Him but love me all my life long. 

The Day I Said Grace And Meant It

Ya, I’m one of those who says Grace. 

In private. 

In public. 

In the cafeteria. 

In a fancy restaurant. 

And when I’m eating food alone. 

To be honest with you, it’s always been a struggle for me to make it more than just something I rush through.  I’ve tried to remember I’m talking to God when I rattle off “Dear Jesus, thank you for this food, Amen”.  For a long time I’ve tried, rather unsuccessfully.  Until just the other day….

There I stood, cart and I, far isle of Super Supplements.  I had reached out to a number of fitness guru’s, asking their best advice on how to get well.  A friend had told me about a product.  There it was.  I stood before it, silent but shouting a prayer out to God.  “God, do I buy this stuff?  Do you hear me?  I need your help.  You know if You don’t act, I’ll have another anaphylactic reaction.  You know I can hardly eat a thing already, and now it’s reactions to grains, nuts, nightshades.  Please, I’m down to greens and berries… had an anaphylactic to bone broth.  God, don’t let this collagen cause a reaction.”  As I stood there shaking and shouting in the silence, Peace showed up.  And I knew.  Almighty God, He is the only one who can make what I put in my mouth a blessing to me. With peace about it, I placed the product in my cart and headed for check out.

The Blessing, for me, has always been about thanking God for the food I eat.  Thankfulness is good.  I guess I just missed the part about the prayer being a request, asking God to bless what I’m eating.  I realize this idea might be taken too far.  “Lord, bless this Mega Big Gulp Red Bull and Onion Rings to the nourishment of my body.”  On the other hand, some of us react to cashews and oatmeal.  Prayers aren’t magic words that give us what we want.  Prayers are heart cries.  Laying out the case before God who already knows about the reactivity in a body, and knows what might help.   

Saying Grace..

… asking God for what I don’t have

… asking for what I can’t get

… asking for what I don’t necessarily deserve

… asking for what I don’t know how to fix. 

I’ll continue to eat my spinach, cabbage, my blueberries and collagen.  I am fully aware I might become allergic to these at any time.  And I ask that God’s Grace might alter the contents of every bite, making what I take in a blessing to my body.  It’s no chore, to Say Grace.  It’s life. 

Bless the Lord, O my soul, And all that is within me, bless his holy name. 

Bless the Lord, O my soul, And forget not all his benefits. 

Blessed be God, eternal king, for these and all his good gifts to us.

Psalms 103: 1,2

 

I Saw Your Son Yesterday

I saw your son yesterday.  Standing on the corner for a brief moment before he jaywalked in front of my car  – blue jeans, t-shirt, flip flops stride wide cross the downtown Seattle thorofare, tall frame and wide shoulders, black hair, the curls all wild. 

Beauty – I caught a glimpse of beauty beneath the emaciated form – the body torn down by a substance that owns him.  Leads him  – ring in nose – under the bridge to where he feels OK.  To an army of ‘ease the pain’ worshipers who sacrifice themselves for a fix. 

I saw your son yesterday, and yelled at God.  “What does it take for you to touch a body and make it whole again?  What if he’s too far gone to reach for You?  Can’t you just take the voices in his head and hush them still so that the fix is not his only relief?”

I saw your son yesterday, as light turned green, I passed him by.  Behind me, he and hundreds of other mother’s sons there to just make it through…

Another crave. 

Another fix. 

Another sleep it off. 

Only to wake up needing more. 

I saw your son yesterday, and asked God to be ‘The More’ for him, and all the mother’s sons with him. 

The Quiet Voice low. 

“…saw her son?  

He’s my Son, too.”

Not Wanted

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“I’m not wanted.”  I can say the words and blood, it rushes fast toward face, fills with heat burn.  Hot tension, pounding the words into the shame place of flesh.  “Not Wanted.”  Salt tears sting eyes at the rawness of the thing.  Chest tightens.  Heart blasting beats to the rhythm of rejection.  “Not wanted.”  A cut deeper than not liked, not needed, not appreciated.  Words that gnarl more than ugly and stupid. 

To be wanted is to be wished for.  A wish come true by just being, as is.  It’s the best thing in the world to be wanted.  Hoped for.  Dreamed of.  Which is why being not wanted gouges into flesh and leaves us immobile and self loathing.  It’s as if we decide to take up the rejection, right along with the one who doesn’t want me.  I don’t want me either.  The place where self hate, cutting, shooting up, hiding, and suicide resides.  Not all self loathing and suicide of course, but some.   

“Not wanted.”  We’re ok to say it to each other in rather benign ways.  “I need my space.”  “No offense, it’s just that you’re not my type.”  “Let’s ditch um, we could use a break.”  Sometimes we call it self-care, sometimes boundaries, when really what is being acted out is rejection and walls.  We invite people to our celebrations that make us larger than life, and if we are honest, we will admit to ourselves that the people on the fringes of our lives are not wanted.  I don’t want them, and neither do you.  And when I’m on the fridge, holding on best I can, but my dignity has gone in exchange for just getting through another day, I don’t want me either. 

The idea of being wanted is most strongly associated with a discussion about family planning. Wanting.  Wanting a baby.  Choosing.  And how much choosing do we really do, in our wanting.  At the mercy, we are, of what arrives.  And then if what has come is not what we want, distance is served.  Pain is felt down to the marrow, and lasts a lifetime.  Felt by the one who wanted and and was left wanting, and by the one who arrives but has not adequately filled the order.  Wants a boy and gets a girl.  Wants a violin player and gets a cement man.  Wants a cowgirl and gets a princess.  Wants a live baby to hold and instead has to hand off, already gone away to Heaven. 

Belonging and being desired is such at the core of our being, that when we aren’t we crack.  Then why do we do it to each other?  Give a cold shoulder.   Sneer.  Shame.  Do all we can to let others know they aren’t wanted.  Kids do it naturally.  “Kids are mean”, we say, and it’s true.  So quite naturally we become rejectors.  And God shows us another way. He shows us what it’s like to feel planned for, sought out, wanted, desired.  Created special for a purpose.  To be seen and treasured.   

Psalm 139

For the director of music. Of David. A psalm.

1 You have searched me, Lord,

    and you know me.

2 You know when I sit and when I rise;

    you perceive my thoughts from afar.

3 You discern my going out and my lying down;

    you are familiar with all my ways.

4 Before a word is on my tongue

    you, Lord, know it completely.

5 You hem me in behind and before,

    and you lay your hand upon me.

6 Such knowledge is too wonderful for me,

    too lofty for me to attain.

7 Where can I go from your Spirit?

    Where can I flee from your presence?

8 If I go up to the heavens, you are there;

    if I make my bed in the depths, you are there.

9 If I rise on the wings of the dawn,

    if I settle on the far side of the sea,

10 even there your hand will guide me,

    your right hand will hold me fast.

11 If I say, “Surely the darkness will hide me

    and the light become night around me,”

12 even the darkness will not be dark to you;

    the night will shine like the day,

    for darkness is as light to you.

13 For you created my inmost being;

    you knit me together in my mother’s womb.

14 I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made;

    your works are wonderful,

    I know that full well.

15 My frame was not hidden from you

    when I was made in the secret place,

    when I was woven together in the depths of the earth.

16 Your eyes saw my unformed body;

    all the days ordained for me were written in your book

    before one of them came to be.

17 How precious to me are your thoughts,[a] God!

    How vast is the sum of them!

18 Were I to count them,

    they would outnumber the grains of sand—

    when I awake, I am still with you.

If I don’t want you just right, God does.  I want to want you, beautiful you.  Want to want your company.  Want to desire your friendship.  Want to love your presence.  Even when I can’t always feel these ways towards you because I’m a broken human, I ask God to use my friendship with you to give you the gift of wanted.  I matter to God, no matter how you treat me, and so do you.  And want you to feel it.  Wanted.  Forever.  Just what is wished for.  Just right.  Settled.  Love-breath upon wished-for heart.  Just right. And I settle into a love for rejecting you, as I know what it is to be limited in my abilities to want. 

Broken Safe Heart

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Beautifully Broken.  A testimony shared in word and book form.  The story of Elisa Morgan, former president of MOPS International.  The telling of a teenage daughter pregnant, the shame of the thing, of the realization that we are all a mess, and this is a truth.  A friend and I ventured from home to attend the “I Am Loved, One Strand” Event featuring Elisa.  An evening of challenge to a church crammed packed with ladies.  Will I hide my brokenness, or will I take the risk and be a mess, for Jesus Sake.  As the evening hours came to a close, half dozen pastors and elders waited up front to offer a prayer for anyone who could use it.  Just as I Am keeping time, verse after verse and out of the hundreds of women attending, no one came forward.  Verses repeated.  Still no one.  Then a couple of the pastors facilitating the event came forward to be prayed for. As if to say “This is how it’s done”. 

We had been dismissed, the church mostly emptied, a few pray-ers still at post when I asked my friend if she wanted to go together for prayer.  Pray for our marriages.  For our kids. For our own personal struggles.  My friend is no ordinary friend.  She is one of those heroes who lives her faith despite depth of pain.  Sunday mornings, despite hostility at doing so, dresses herself and her children and slips off to church alone, shaking inside but holding it together, always holding it together.  The only Christian in her family.  A mentally unstable husband who swings from kind to damaging.  Having to scoop up children and leave her home for days, fly away, until the storm passes.  She is a mother who is doing everything she can to give her kids what they need, her husband what he needs, works full time, is a loving adult daughter of aging parents, a loving friend to me and many others.  All this amidst a blast that comes and goes, sometimes nearly crashed upon the rocks, when once again God comes through, and she holds steady again. 

We have so much in common, her and I, and you too, I’m guessing.  Our lives are full and beautiful and messy and painful.  We have the unexpected that tares at us.  Every time the calm comes, on it’s heels is destruction.  Willing again and again to be a mess for Jesus sake, as it would be so much easier to pretend all is well, easier to dust ourselves of the messes that disrupt our hoped for lives, but we’ve decided to refuse to give up.  And there we were, she and I doing the very thing the evening had lauded.  Praying not for the superficial, but for what needed praying for. 

Pastor woman, kind eyes, nice prayers she offers up.  The flowing kind of prayers, until tears flow from depths of those she prayed for.  Immediately friend and I feel the change.  Pastor Woman holds steady cold eyes on the one with tears and steps back.  Starts lecturing.  Shrouded in Christian-ese, she with smile and sneer eyes, she offers up a lecture of indignant setting straight.  Arrogance and irritation.  Distance.  Rejection.  Parental eyes.  As real as if she had said the words, “We don’t do messy here.”  

Shame, it hit hard.  Feeling sick.  Needing to find a hiding place, a bathroom, tears they showered pant-leg beneath the eyes.  And as shame flooded in, I remembered words I had heard hours before in a training I had attended.  Fight, flight and freeze occurs when comfort has not been extended.  Fight, flight, freeze.  The body’s reaction to not trusting.  An unsafe place to be a mess. 

The church is realizing how important authenticity is, and vulnerability.  Elisa Morgan has written “Beautifully Broken”.  Ann Voskamp’s latest book reiterates the same idea in “The Broken Way”.  Brene Brown has written extensively about vulnerability and authenticity, and about becoming a wholehearted person.  And many are speaking out on these issues, including God.  The Holy Bible is packed with raw stories of real people.  And still the church isn’t prepared for what it’s asking for. 

We better not ask for real if we have not done the due diligence of placing front and center only those who have done their own raw and messy work.  If my healthy vulnerability frightens you, as culturally Christian as I am, you won’t at all be comfortable with folks with a criminal record, an abortion never spoken of, same sex attraction shame, cut scars that run deep behind long sleeves, a porn addiction, shoplifting, the pain of life as a stripper, hidden heroine, purging, on the run.  Christian servants are not prepared unless we have intentionally peered into the toxic morass of our own less than lovely lives.  The grace of Jesus administered to shame makes worthy and safe my ears to hear your wound, and your secrets.  Professional pretenders have no place at the front line of the body of Christ.  This interaction was uncomfortable for me, but I’m not harmed.  I’m surrounded by healthy people who give me all the love and support I need.  Someone else might not have what I have.  One considering Christianity.  One who has risk it all to try once again to reach for Jesus.   

Jesus says:

By this everyone will know that you are my disciples, if you love one another.” John 13:35

Of course we don’t want pastors and leaders functioning as out-of-control messes.  This pastor offering prayer has either never come face to face with her own lacking, or had experienced the discomfort of letting a judgmental person in on her own disgrace, which is why she reacted the way she did to ours.  How can a pastor be honest with themselves and others when we marginalize them for owning their weaknesses?  Pastors are human beings.  They have a past, a present.  Arrogant Saul was only safe to serve when struck down by Jesus, made blind and dependent, and a mess.  Peter was only safe when he faced the ugliness and rejection of his distancing behavior.  We are only safe when we see who we are, and let God’s Grace pick us up again.  A pastor able to admit and speak about his or her own messiness becomes safe to love another.  And not before. 

I’ve written on this topic more than once, and will continue to write on it.  The front lines call for the real deal.  No pretenders.  Our Christian Culture must stop rewarding leaders and pastors for pretending, and punishing for honesty.  The route from death to life is across a cravat that separates Hateland of Pretend from The Loveland of Known.  From the Hiding, fight, flight and freeze (Adam, where are you?) place to a place of being seen, loved and forgiven.  Christians can’t stand on both grounds. Authenticity is attractive to the hurting who don’t know Jesus, because isn’t this what we all want most of all?  To be known AND loved.  We can’t pretend to be authentic as a way of extending a hand.  The call for authenticity has already been sent out.  Front line Christian’s, time is now to step across.  

Real Prayer

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This prayer to God was written by a beautiful survivor of the most hideous of abuse.  It’s a real prayer to God.  I’m posting this with her permission as I think we all need to challenge preconceived ideas about what a proper prayer looks like, and assumptions about people unable to imagine a loving God.  The God I worship wept.  He welcomes honesty. Even of the rawest form.  Thank you Trinity for allowing me to share your letter.

 

I so long for a Father figure,

someone to gently love me without abuse,

without conditions, without fear of judgment.

You, God are suppose to be my ultimate Father,

on one side, I still so desperately long for your affections, your love,

and at times I see glimpses of that in the children you’ve place in my life,

through other people,

through the promises in your Word.

But lately there is this other side,

this darkness within me that rages at you

and doesn’t understand how you have a plan for my life,

or that you care about the broken hearted.

A part of me that see you no differently than I view my abuser,

as a monster,

because only a monster would allow children to be abused,

would allow my own parents to crave drugs so bad that selling me,

their youngest child,

was like selling a used shirt at a yard sale,

something you don’t think twice about.

And then you create me to need love and attention,

the very things that got me hurt in the first place!

Why would I come running to you?!!

You didn’t protect me,

you sure as hell didn’t stop the bastards that used me like trash for years.

If you want me to truly trust you God,

you’ve got to break the wall down,

because it’s high and thick and not coming down without some serious work on your part.

I’m tired of praying to what seems like thin air,

only to battle the demons within me so much more.

You say you’re a healer and you heal the broken hearted.

Where’s the healing???

When does it come?

When do I get release from the monsters of mental illness?

The hell and torture of PTSD?

The little Trinity needs her Abba Father,

but the adult me wants to never let you close to her.

I need some answers, God

if we are going to work together to heal little Trinity.

Written by Trinity