Sometimes I feel like I am learning so much I can’t contain it all. It propels me forward at an ungodly pace, asking for more, reaching for something new, hungry to let go of all fear, reservations, encumbrances and pre-judgments, there is a deep calling to finally live.
A by-product of going through terrible things, is, sometimes, they bring you the very thing you were always hoping for. Most of us have an image we think we fulfill. We see ourselves a certain way. It’s like looking in the mirror, walking out of the house, but then someone takes a picture of you when you see it, it’s not what you remember from the mirror.
I had what I thought I was, what I thought I could be. Without knowing, I never was even close to it. When that image gets shed, it’s painful. Everything has to be re-learned and understood from a completely new perspective and it is humbling to say the least.
I’m irresponsible. A lot more irresponsible than I thought. There are times, I make decisions and later I think, “What the hell was I thinking?” I come off way stronger than I thought I did. I do everything on a 10. I’m black and white. I’m naïve. Incredibly naïve. I’m impatient and my wisdom finds itself more in platitudes than in action. I’m fearful. I’m scared of freaking everything. I want to be courageous, but really, I’m a freaking chicken. I’m bitchy sometimes. When you stop caring about whether or not people like you and you start actually having feelings, you get bitchy. It’s weird. I have an opinion about everything. EVERYTHING. I even find myself annoying. There are times I hear myself talking and I think, “You ass, just stop. Seriously, shut up.” And then I keep talking.
But, on the other side of pain, on the upside of healing, when you have found yourself in the dirt enough times, when you have reached out and landed so flat on your face you don't want to look up; when your sex life has become family gossip or you wake up on a Saturday morning with a $50 hang-over wondering what you may have said to your boss at happy hour that you wish you could take back and you spend more nights baking than out with friends or the times you go out with friends and it takes you your camera and your credit card statement to figure out what happened, something finally clicks. You start laughing. It gets ridiculous. You look backward, than forward, than back again, and you just have to laugh. You think "I'm a disaster!" and it doesn't bother you. You realize having it all together is overrated, and even when it's painful, life is a lot more fun messy.
Well, I’m still breathing, I’m still moving, I’m still learning, growing… so there still must be hope. Life is going to come and go, people are going to come and go, pain is going to come and go, but none of that matters. Next week most people will forget what stupid thing I said. God is still going to be God, I am still going to be me and life is still going to happen.
Life isn’t lived when you are too afraid to partake in it, but ironically, it takes a sincere understanding of grace before being able to truly feel the dirt beneath your feet, the sun, the rain; the cement when it smacks you in the face, and the wind when you learn how to soar. The pain, and surviving it, is what has taught me to stop fearing it. Feeling the judgment of others is what relieved the worry of being judged. Healing from betrayal is what has taught me the importance of trust. I’ve learned how resilient I am, how good God really is, and why most of the people around me need to be ignored. I learned you can’t know what grace and mercy are until you are desperate for them. And most of the time, the only reason you are desperate for them is because you have screwed something up so bad, or hurt someone you love, or are paying the consequences of your own stupid decision. Even more than that, what you learn is, if you aren’t making the mistakes, most likely, you aren’t really living life.
When you step into the flow of life, risking, taking chances, wanting to really live rather than just sit and watch it go by, you find yourself face down in the gutter more often than in the clouds. But it’s the only way you learn. Getting wrong, screwing it up, making an ass of yourself and others, it’s what gives you the stories you laugh about with your friends over mimosas Sunday morning. The mistakes, the flaws, the moments you almost regret, you can’t stick your hand out and not get burned sometimes. We forget that controversy breeds change, that challenge and pain creates creativity.
I’ve said it before, but every day it takes on a new meaning and level: grace must wound. It’s inevitable. You have to feel stupid to laugh at yourself. You have to know how strong you are to balance the fragile; you have to know how to be both to understand true vulnerability and relationship. You risk knowing how much something might hurt, but also knowing you will survive.
I’m beginning to remember who I am and to find out who I might be one day. I’m not the picture of perfection and I becoming more and more comfortable with that. My Radio Flyer of baggage is starting to look more like a scrap book of places, people and things that I have collected, bringing with me a diversity of experiences and lessons. I’ve spent a lifetime searching for a grace that would free me and allow me to live a life free of fear, but I had to get desperate enough, angry enough and feel stupid enough to allow it to be true.
I had a conversation with my sister the other day in which I saw unfold a very typical circumstance. She is super pissed at me for a perceived betrayal and went on the offensive attacking my relationship with God. Normally that would wound me to the enth degree, but as my perspective has shifted, as my knowledge of Him and His heart, of who He really is, of knowing who I really am, for once, I got to step back and laugh rather than cry.
I made an agreement with Jesus a while ago clearly knowing that He and I will never part, never be away from each other, never be anything but completely committed to each other, but also knowing in His infinite wisdom, He has to understand I am working in the dark here. I’m fumbling around, fucking it up, landing hard, redefining what I believe, testing new waters, letting doubt be covered by trust and being an adult enough to let go of my parents faith. I’m going to get it wrong, I’m going to do stupid things, but neither will He be surprised, nor angered. In fact, I think He’s pretty proud. I’m doing the one thing He said to do: go live. He gave me talents and I am not burying it in a field because I understand my master isn’t going to beat me if I lose it all. If I end up with egg on my face, acting like a jackass, He will come along, pick me up and say, “Well, it was a great show on the way down. I know I was entertained.” Then He will smile, I will role my eyes and we will both laugh. Because you have to. That is grace.
Monday, October 17, 2011
Wednesday, October 12, 2011
Adventures
As if life and perspectives couldn’t get complicated enough, as always, I am reading a new book and it is stirring something in me that hasn’t been awakened in a while. In fact, this old longing is at once perfectly familiar, as if it has been my constant companion for years, but brings with it a new tenacity, a new awareness that frightens the hell out of me.
I’m reading Through Painted Deserts, by Donald Miller. If you have ever read my ramblings, you would know, he happens to be one of my favorite authors. There are few that have spoken a language that is so understood by my own cravings of soul, that when I read their words, I understand the desire to stand up and shout “Hallelujah! Amen! Preach it brother!” This would be much funnier if I could somehow describe the sort of melancholy ease with which he writes, but still, you get the picture.
I’m only a few chapters in, but the theme, the question, the larger thesis is already clear. He has articulately stated the very restlessness that has at once repulsed and prompted me: The greater questions of why. Why this, why that, and why does it matter? What does it really mean for tomorrow, for a year from now, for ten seconds from now?
I have grown up in a very powerful culture. There is a normal and an abnormal. There is acceptable and unacceptable. When someone happens to stumble outside those bounds, there is this tacit acknowledgement that while trying to be “gracious” expects you to fall back in line. Everyone gets to the end goal differently, but the end goal, those are all the same.
It’s weird when this happens. Two people begin to be created. If you are anyone that wants more, or to understand more, or to think deeper, or to challenge and be challenged, immediately, you understand how inherently different you are. And like every normal person, youth propels the desire to fit in, to be accepted and seen as normal, the one thing you may never be. There are those that ask the why questions and those that don’t need to. When those lines are divided, they are hard to cross back over. Once your path has been decided, it is hard to break with it, because the why questions inevitably determine the how questions. Why all these things are the way are, and what is important and what do I believe about them and eventually, how to live that out? We are the product of what we do, but very few feel the pull between who they may be, and who they ought to be.
I, feel the pull. And even more so, I feel the pull, but see myself making decisions every day that, instead of leading me closer to becoming more myself, I am choosing to believe the storyline of my culture and I am not sure that is really what I want.
I want a family, I want a home, I want kids running in and out, I want friends over for Superbowl Sunday and late night dinners and Thanksgivings. But I can’t deny how important it feels to me, to live a life of adventure. There is so much to see and do and there are very few moments that string together our lives. It is great to have a family, but when your world is very small, I wonder how much we miss out on the glory of God.
We describe God as big, mysterious, beautiful, wondrous, compassionate, a shelter in times of trouble, the King of all Kings, the Alpha Omega…. These are huge terms. The encompass time, heavens, oceans, mountains and seas. They speak of justice, community, kindness and the chase. How often do we mistake restlessness for being without peace? What if the stirrings that surface, that cause the triple beat of heart when we see a horizon, a skyline unsearched, a view of the cosmos from the earth, what if those aren’t the things we should be tempering, but what if they are the very things we should be pushing into?
I face a dilemma. There are two paths that stretch out in front of me. Twice now I have been on the brink of lifetime commitments that would determine my path as acceptable and right by my culture. I would fit. And at least, if I don’t have the marriage and the family, it puts me square back in the acceptable range to be searching it out. But what if, what if that is something that is supposed to happen later?
Every day I get up, go to the gym, work out, get in my car, drive to my job, work my day and head back home in the same car. The same destination everyday with the same route and the same encounters. I keep waiting for something to change it up, for something different to come my way, to feel comfortable with my “how” choices, but I can’t ignore what confronts my soul. I have already seemed to have made my choice and I am not sure it what the right one.
When you grow up with the sort of dual persona that I have, it breeds a certain amount of distrust of yourself. I would ask the questions I thought were important, only to have them looked at with incredulity, and when I pushed back, a definite sense of displacement. Eventually you learn, you have to sacrifice your own questions, beliefs, answers to fit with the norm around you. So the duality festers and grows and forces you to either make rash decisions you think others would make, or to make no decisions at all, for fear of losing either yourself or an imagined future.
Case in point: my marriage. I loved him, but not the way someone deserves to be loved when they ask you forever, and not the way someone deserves when they say yes. But it was the path that was laid out before me. And I knew where it was headed and I didn’t trust myself to do anything different. When it fell apart, it shouldn’t have been a surprise. So I struck out again, but this time, I found a different sort of love and it fulfilled a different place in me and again, I gave up the longings for it and again it ended in disaster. Lately I have been wondering, how much of that is accident and collision, as it is the two personalities trying to walk a line in my life that maybe shouldn’t be walked. I keep saying I want roots, but when it comes down to it, I refuse to do it.
I got approved for a home loan, I looked, but nothing was ever good enough. I could have moved out with a friend of mine, but everyone wanted a year lease and I didn’t want to do that. I still have boxes unpacked and I keep all of my contracts month to month. But if you had asked me a month ago, I would have told you I was going nowhere and I was finally settling in. As if that process takes a year.
I crave stability, but don’t want to settle anywhere for fear that it may not be where I want to end up. I keep looking out at the horizon, wondering what else is out there and would something, somewhere else fit better?
In doing the stripping down and refitting for the last few months, I have come to one realization: I have no freaking clue what I want, or what I need. I just know I don’t want to keep living as if my life is already over.
I want my cake and to eat it too. I want love, life, community, adventure, growth, to see the mystery of God, to chase His dreams, to live a life worthy of His promises. I want to be stretched, pulled, anchored, wizened, softened and calloused. I want to learn to love freely, trust exuberantly and be shrewd in my encounters. I want to learn to trust myself and the pulls in my soul, and never regret a minute of this life. I want to honor the sacrifice that has made it possible for me to live connected to others and given me a sense of hope and wonder that so many before me may have struggled to find. I want to suffer with those that suffer, to laugh with those who laugh and never be afraid of tomorrow, but instead, excited to see the day break for what it may bring.
I am nowhere near any of that, and I want to learn how to get there, but I guess that is for when the why’s are slightly more filled out. Why this way, why that way and why do I have to choose?
How big are you God, and if it isn’t too late, can we still go on an adventure?
I’m reading Through Painted Deserts, by Donald Miller. If you have ever read my ramblings, you would know, he happens to be one of my favorite authors. There are few that have spoken a language that is so understood by my own cravings of soul, that when I read their words, I understand the desire to stand up and shout “Hallelujah! Amen! Preach it brother!” This would be much funnier if I could somehow describe the sort of melancholy ease with which he writes, but still, you get the picture.
I’m only a few chapters in, but the theme, the question, the larger thesis is already clear. He has articulately stated the very restlessness that has at once repulsed and prompted me: The greater questions of why. Why this, why that, and why does it matter? What does it really mean for tomorrow, for a year from now, for ten seconds from now?
I have grown up in a very powerful culture. There is a normal and an abnormal. There is acceptable and unacceptable. When someone happens to stumble outside those bounds, there is this tacit acknowledgement that while trying to be “gracious” expects you to fall back in line. Everyone gets to the end goal differently, but the end goal, those are all the same.
It’s weird when this happens. Two people begin to be created. If you are anyone that wants more, or to understand more, or to think deeper, or to challenge and be challenged, immediately, you understand how inherently different you are. And like every normal person, youth propels the desire to fit in, to be accepted and seen as normal, the one thing you may never be. There are those that ask the why questions and those that don’t need to. When those lines are divided, they are hard to cross back over. Once your path has been decided, it is hard to break with it, because the why questions inevitably determine the how questions. Why all these things are the way are, and what is important and what do I believe about them and eventually, how to live that out? We are the product of what we do, but very few feel the pull between who they may be, and who they ought to be.
I, feel the pull. And even more so, I feel the pull, but see myself making decisions every day that, instead of leading me closer to becoming more myself, I am choosing to believe the storyline of my culture and I am not sure that is really what I want.
I want a family, I want a home, I want kids running in and out, I want friends over for Superbowl Sunday and late night dinners and Thanksgivings. But I can’t deny how important it feels to me, to live a life of adventure. There is so much to see and do and there are very few moments that string together our lives. It is great to have a family, but when your world is very small, I wonder how much we miss out on the glory of God.
We describe God as big, mysterious, beautiful, wondrous, compassionate, a shelter in times of trouble, the King of all Kings, the Alpha Omega…. These are huge terms. The encompass time, heavens, oceans, mountains and seas. They speak of justice, community, kindness and the chase. How often do we mistake restlessness for being without peace? What if the stirrings that surface, that cause the triple beat of heart when we see a horizon, a skyline unsearched, a view of the cosmos from the earth, what if those aren’t the things we should be tempering, but what if they are the very things we should be pushing into?
I face a dilemma. There are two paths that stretch out in front of me. Twice now I have been on the brink of lifetime commitments that would determine my path as acceptable and right by my culture. I would fit. And at least, if I don’t have the marriage and the family, it puts me square back in the acceptable range to be searching it out. But what if, what if that is something that is supposed to happen later?
Every day I get up, go to the gym, work out, get in my car, drive to my job, work my day and head back home in the same car. The same destination everyday with the same route and the same encounters. I keep waiting for something to change it up, for something different to come my way, to feel comfortable with my “how” choices, but I can’t ignore what confronts my soul. I have already seemed to have made my choice and I am not sure it what the right one.
When you grow up with the sort of dual persona that I have, it breeds a certain amount of distrust of yourself. I would ask the questions I thought were important, only to have them looked at with incredulity, and when I pushed back, a definite sense of displacement. Eventually you learn, you have to sacrifice your own questions, beliefs, answers to fit with the norm around you. So the duality festers and grows and forces you to either make rash decisions you think others would make, or to make no decisions at all, for fear of losing either yourself or an imagined future.
Case in point: my marriage. I loved him, but not the way someone deserves to be loved when they ask you forever, and not the way someone deserves when they say yes. But it was the path that was laid out before me. And I knew where it was headed and I didn’t trust myself to do anything different. When it fell apart, it shouldn’t have been a surprise. So I struck out again, but this time, I found a different sort of love and it fulfilled a different place in me and again, I gave up the longings for it and again it ended in disaster. Lately I have been wondering, how much of that is accident and collision, as it is the two personalities trying to walk a line in my life that maybe shouldn’t be walked. I keep saying I want roots, but when it comes down to it, I refuse to do it.
I got approved for a home loan, I looked, but nothing was ever good enough. I could have moved out with a friend of mine, but everyone wanted a year lease and I didn’t want to do that. I still have boxes unpacked and I keep all of my contracts month to month. But if you had asked me a month ago, I would have told you I was going nowhere and I was finally settling in. As if that process takes a year.
I crave stability, but don’t want to settle anywhere for fear that it may not be where I want to end up. I keep looking out at the horizon, wondering what else is out there and would something, somewhere else fit better?
In doing the stripping down and refitting for the last few months, I have come to one realization: I have no freaking clue what I want, or what I need. I just know I don’t want to keep living as if my life is already over.
I want my cake and to eat it too. I want love, life, community, adventure, growth, to see the mystery of God, to chase His dreams, to live a life worthy of His promises. I want to be stretched, pulled, anchored, wizened, softened and calloused. I want to learn to love freely, trust exuberantly and be shrewd in my encounters. I want to learn to trust myself and the pulls in my soul, and never regret a minute of this life. I want to honor the sacrifice that has made it possible for me to live connected to others and given me a sense of hope and wonder that so many before me may have struggled to find. I want to suffer with those that suffer, to laugh with those who laugh and never be afraid of tomorrow, but instead, excited to see the day break for what it may bring.
I am nowhere near any of that, and I want to learn how to get there, but I guess that is for when the why’s are slightly more filled out. Why this way, why that way and why do I have to choose?
How big are you God, and if it isn’t too late, can we still go on an adventure?
Tuesday, October 11, 2011
Fall, again
Every year in the beginning of fall, I always write about what it is meaning to me at the time. This year can be no different. In fact, maybe it's even more so.
People love seasons for different reasons. Some of summer for the warmth of the cement at twilight and the long sunny days. Spring has its joys with a sense of newness, the beginning and maybe just a little love. The sleepiness of winter lures some in, calming their hectic lives and forcing a slower pace as the weather becomes a natural hindrance to a frenetic speed of life.
But to me, fall is the most amazing off all seasons. Deep passionate colors, but quiet in the way it enters. Nothing seems more satisfying than wrapping yourself in a blanket in some sort of oversized chair, listening to rain and watching the mist gathered. I used to say it was the reflection I loved, but the older I've gotten, the more I have learned, it truly is the death that I take joy in.
As fall has come, I have found myself shedding so much, like a second skin, or unwanted layers. My heart has continued to settle in to the truths that loom larger than life, accepting them, and in that acceptance, feeling a sense of release.
I had a date last night. I know, right? It's been a while. I have substituted baking for a social life and subsequently created an addiction in the office, and my sweet tooth. But instead of answering the beckoning call to a new recipe of coffeecake cupcakes with an espresso whipped cream, I accepted an invitation to Monday night football and sushi. Got to get out there sometime, right?
Interestingly enough, I had an hour to kill before we met up, so I spent some time reading and running errands. The closer I got to the date, the more anxious I got. All I wanted to do was go home and bake. I didn't want to go on this date and find that he was another guy that wouldn't be able to have a decent conversation, or I was going to be fighting off for sex. I didn't want to have to worry about whether or not I had mace in my purse, or a good excuse to get out of their when things turned south. I didn't want to fight the disappointment, I didn't want to feel the comparisons I knew I would be making. And that's what it was, wasn't it? In my head, I was making comparisons to an experience I had years ago when I fell in love with my ex. He had surprised me with charm, wit and confidence. He treated me like a princess and it spoiled me and now it seemed nothing would compare and so better to not even try.
The lump kept forming in my throat as I thought it about it over and over. I had already made an ass of myself by drunk emailing him a few nights before (I know, I know, but it was a weak moment and the great part is, the next morning I was so glad to realize he would always be too weak to ever respond). It was ironic in how I felt stupid the next morning, but mostly because, I am beginning to not really feel so in love with him anymore. I think I had a nostalgic moment over feeling so in love and all the baking in the world doesn't substitute for a great make-out session. I woke up and slapped my forehead thinking "Oh Lord, I'm stupid. Oh well! Shit happens." But still, the memories of how I had been swept off my feet before left me feeling frightened and anxious about what was ahead.
I realized, it would never be that way again. I would never be that naive, I would never be able to be so swept away. I could never settle so easily again. The circumstances of life had left me in such a place that I knew, what happened then, would never happen again and no one would ever compare. I couldn't ever go back. And I cried. For a moment I cried.
Then, the deeper truth sank in. Just because it would never be like that again, didn't mean I was going to have to settle. So what if this was a bad date? Did that mean every date after was going to be bad? If he thought he was going to get in my pants just for a dinner, did that mean I had to let him have that fear? Who said I was a victim and I couldn't handle myself? And why was I assuming it was going to be that way?
So I fell in love once, it was great and we were great and now, it's over. For the first time in my life, as I am shedding, dying, finding, growing, grieving, learning, giving, feeling, hoping and allowing myself to find who I really am, I feel more comfortable and uncomfortable in my skin than I ever have. And no one can take that. I am going to screw up, I am full of baggage and hurts and lessons and fears and wisdom and energy and passion and immaturity and so many other amazing and ridiculous things. The key for me, is rather than fight the truths, let them settle in. Let them do their work.
If the trees didn't know their place in the cycle of life, they would fight the death that every fall brought, and I would never see the beautiful colors of orange, red, gold and brown. If it were a perpetual spring, nothing would ever have a chance to come back to life bigger, grander, more full of wonder and majesty. I fear the pain of the truths and do everything I can to run past them, to disregard them, or pretend they aren't true. Everything will be okay seems to be the motto I want to bury my head in, but the real peace, the real freedom, the real compassion, love and tenderness comes when I stop fighting and let the pain have its way until there is nothing left.
I think this is why I have inherently loved fall. Because somewhere deep inside, there is a resonation with death. My soul and spirit fall in line as I let go of what I think has to be, my normal definitions and my usual ways, and instead I surrender and let the hurt mark and scar. Then, somehow in the amazing hope that is the man of Jesus, something comes back to life. A deeper sort of more important hope comes and rings true. I am changing, the seasons are coming and going, and letting go may hurt so bad, but there is a freedom in not retaining what is already dead. I am not the same woman I was four years ago, two years ago, two months ago. Every morning I get up and say goodbye to her, knowing I carry with me the best parts, the deep, vulnerable, strong scar tissue that defines me as growing, developing and learning.
It's been such a long winter, with such a short summer. But as this fall greets me with its warm kiss and chilly nights, I welcome the death like never before. I've seen the value of pain, the beauty from loving and losing, the wounding of hopelessness, the betrayal of faith and everything you thought you knew, and I have rued the day I was born. Well, I may not reveling in perfect joy, but I am considering the compassion and connection to others pain a much deeper sort of gift. It carries with it the responsibility of love that grows beyond words, and I am not sure where the road will take me, but I know every year will find me back in fall, wrapping me back in a season of death to again meet another of life. There is peace in the knowledge that all is as it should be. It should be hard, because then it will be great again, and then it will be hard again and then I will know more and love more and I will never be the same. And for someone that usually reads the last page of a book first, this is a sort of milestone close to the removing of the stone over the tomb.
And for those of you that are curious, surprisingly, the date was great. He was charming, smart, respectful and very, very cute. He opened doors, paid for dinner, and didn't so much ask for a kiss at the end of the night. Instead he asked me to a Stanford game and said I smelled like paradise. Um, swoon. But in truth, there is a small part of me that is appreciative of the space, the respect and how maybe, when I'm ready to fall in love again, it will be a little less fast, but a little more deep. Now it may not be love at first date, but it has some promise, and for once, that is almost better. I may hate the suspense, but if I can have the miracle of knowing death will have its way and it will be a good thing, than maybe, this time I won't try to run to the finish line too early, or force it to be something its not. And maybe, I will find out along the way, it isn't what I want, or maybe it will be, or maybe it won't for him, or whatever. The point is, slowing down, letting death and hope rise in unison, peace falls as the smell of pumpkin lattes and the sounds of football increase. So now, I am going to grab my blanket, find a chair and watch the mist surround with a small smile knowing, one day, things will make more sense. Or, maybe they won't.
People love seasons for different reasons. Some of summer for the warmth of the cement at twilight and the long sunny days. Spring has its joys with a sense of newness, the beginning and maybe just a little love. The sleepiness of winter lures some in, calming their hectic lives and forcing a slower pace as the weather becomes a natural hindrance to a frenetic speed of life.
But to me, fall is the most amazing off all seasons. Deep passionate colors, but quiet in the way it enters. Nothing seems more satisfying than wrapping yourself in a blanket in some sort of oversized chair, listening to rain and watching the mist gathered. I used to say it was the reflection I loved, but the older I've gotten, the more I have learned, it truly is the death that I take joy in.
As fall has come, I have found myself shedding so much, like a second skin, or unwanted layers. My heart has continued to settle in to the truths that loom larger than life, accepting them, and in that acceptance, feeling a sense of release.
I had a date last night. I know, right? It's been a while. I have substituted baking for a social life and subsequently created an addiction in the office, and my sweet tooth. But instead of answering the beckoning call to a new recipe of coffeecake cupcakes with an espresso whipped cream, I accepted an invitation to Monday night football and sushi. Got to get out there sometime, right?
Interestingly enough, I had an hour to kill before we met up, so I spent some time reading and running errands. The closer I got to the date, the more anxious I got. All I wanted to do was go home and bake. I didn't want to go on this date and find that he was another guy that wouldn't be able to have a decent conversation, or I was going to be fighting off for sex. I didn't want to have to worry about whether or not I had mace in my purse, or a good excuse to get out of their when things turned south. I didn't want to fight the disappointment, I didn't want to feel the comparisons I knew I would be making. And that's what it was, wasn't it? In my head, I was making comparisons to an experience I had years ago when I fell in love with my ex. He had surprised me with charm, wit and confidence. He treated me like a princess and it spoiled me and now it seemed nothing would compare and so better to not even try.
The lump kept forming in my throat as I thought it about it over and over. I had already made an ass of myself by drunk emailing him a few nights before (I know, I know, but it was a weak moment and the great part is, the next morning I was so glad to realize he would always be too weak to ever respond). It was ironic in how I felt stupid the next morning, but mostly because, I am beginning to not really feel so in love with him anymore. I think I had a nostalgic moment over feeling so in love and all the baking in the world doesn't substitute for a great make-out session. I woke up and slapped my forehead thinking "Oh Lord, I'm stupid. Oh well! Shit happens." But still, the memories of how I had been swept off my feet before left me feeling frightened and anxious about what was ahead.
I realized, it would never be that way again. I would never be that naive, I would never be able to be so swept away. I could never settle so easily again. The circumstances of life had left me in such a place that I knew, what happened then, would never happen again and no one would ever compare. I couldn't ever go back. And I cried. For a moment I cried.
Then, the deeper truth sank in. Just because it would never be like that again, didn't mean I was going to have to settle. So what if this was a bad date? Did that mean every date after was going to be bad? If he thought he was going to get in my pants just for a dinner, did that mean I had to let him have that fear? Who said I was a victim and I couldn't handle myself? And why was I assuming it was going to be that way?
So I fell in love once, it was great and we were great and now, it's over. For the first time in my life, as I am shedding, dying, finding, growing, grieving, learning, giving, feeling, hoping and allowing myself to find who I really am, I feel more comfortable and uncomfortable in my skin than I ever have. And no one can take that. I am going to screw up, I am full of baggage and hurts and lessons and fears and wisdom and energy and passion and immaturity and so many other amazing and ridiculous things. The key for me, is rather than fight the truths, let them settle in. Let them do their work.
If the trees didn't know their place in the cycle of life, they would fight the death that every fall brought, and I would never see the beautiful colors of orange, red, gold and brown. If it were a perpetual spring, nothing would ever have a chance to come back to life bigger, grander, more full of wonder and majesty. I fear the pain of the truths and do everything I can to run past them, to disregard them, or pretend they aren't true. Everything will be okay seems to be the motto I want to bury my head in, but the real peace, the real freedom, the real compassion, love and tenderness comes when I stop fighting and let the pain have its way until there is nothing left.
I think this is why I have inherently loved fall. Because somewhere deep inside, there is a resonation with death. My soul and spirit fall in line as I let go of what I think has to be, my normal definitions and my usual ways, and instead I surrender and let the hurt mark and scar. Then, somehow in the amazing hope that is the man of Jesus, something comes back to life. A deeper sort of more important hope comes and rings true. I am changing, the seasons are coming and going, and letting go may hurt so bad, but there is a freedom in not retaining what is already dead. I am not the same woman I was four years ago, two years ago, two months ago. Every morning I get up and say goodbye to her, knowing I carry with me the best parts, the deep, vulnerable, strong scar tissue that defines me as growing, developing and learning.
It's been such a long winter, with such a short summer. But as this fall greets me with its warm kiss and chilly nights, I welcome the death like never before. I've seen the value of pain, the beauty from loving and losing, the wounding of hopelessness, the betrayal of faith and everything you thought you knew, and I have rued the day I was born. Well, I may not reveling in perfect joy, but I am considering the compassion and connection to others pain a much deeper sort of gift. It carries with it the responsibility of love that grows beyond words, and I am not sure where the road will take me, but I know every year will find me back in fall, wrapping me back in a season of death to again meet another of life. There is peace in the knowledge that all is as it should be. It should be hard, because then it will be great again, and then it will be hard again and then I will know more and love more and I will never be the same. And for someone that usually reads the last page of a book first, this is a sort of milestone close to the removing of the stone over the tomb.
And for those of you that are curious, surprisingly, the date was great. He was charming, smart, respectful and very, very cute. He opened doors, paid for dinner, and didn't so much ask for a kiss at the end of the night. Instead he asked me to a Stanford game and said I smelled like paradise. Um, swoon. But in truth, there is a small part of me that is appreciative of the space, the respect and how maybe, when I'm ready to fall in love again, it will be a little less fast, but a little more deep. Now it may not be love at first date, but it has some promise, and for once, that is almost better. I may hate the suspense, but if I can have the miracle of knowing death will have its way and it will be a good thing, than maybe, this time I won't try to run to the finish line too early, or force it to be something its not. And maybe, I will find out along the way, it isn't what I want, or maybe it will be, or maybe it won't for him, or whatever. The point is, slowing down, letting death and hope rise in unison, peace falls as the smell of pumpkin lattes and the sounds of football increase. So now, I am going to grab my blanket, find a chair and watch the mist surround with a small smile knowing, one day, things will make more sense. Or, maybe they won't.
Thursday, October 6, 2011
Water
I was talking with a friend today and she, like I was having what we girls term, "a freak out" moment. Something happens, or doesn't happen, and all of the sudden, all of our mortality falls down like a ton of brinks.
As I was talking her off the metaphorical ledge, I heard something come out of my mouth that as I said it, I was struck by the truth I didn't know I knew.
"When someone is dying of thirst, they don't care what you look like, they only see the water in your hand."
I stress about my hair, my makeup or if I am running late to work. I worry about meeting the right person, putting myself in the right places, or the career I want. I get pissed about the petty and I count calories.
But every once in a while, after staring at the face of a child that is hungry, or hearing of war in a different country, victims of hopeless situations or the pain of a bitter loss, the memories of my own pains bring a rush of perspective. While I am worrying about me, I forget that what I don't have, maybe the very things that give me the freedom to be what is more important, what someone else needs. The space that seems to echo in my mind, the memories I wish I didn't have, the ability to empathize with the helpless, the victims, the hurting, it may be just what I need.
We all want to be needed, to be more important than our waist size, our skin color, or our sunny smiles. We want to be valuable, to make something beautiful out of what seems so grey and ugly. The desire to be a part of the greater, the humanity of life, the community of love and laughter and kindness, it is innate. We are born for it. Then something happens and we lose a piece of it, then another and another until we find ourselves substituting in the superficial ways. We settle for the cheap version in great clothes, beautiful bodies, the right friends and appearances. We are lonely while surrounded and hurting while succeeding and all the while, the sinking feeling that we are missing the point, pulls at the seams.
The truth is, when I risk the most, the days I give what I know someone needs and say the things that bear just a bit of my soul, loving and encouraging, when I join the fight to believe in the hope of good, I find myself in the rhythm I have been searching for. I feel good about myself when I am giving what is truly needed, I trust myself more when I am listening to the cries of those without a voice and I see my own value when I am using my gifts to help those that really need it.
The truth is, at some point, if you have been scarred deep enough, the only thing that matters, the only thing that makes it better, the only thing that helps ease the anger, is doing the things that brings the world some meaning.
I can't do anything about my past. And some days, I want to punch a wall for how much it seems to hurt and drag me down. I look back, then forward and I wonder, how am I supposed to keep moving with all this baggage? I'm tired and stiff from scar tissue, and it just doesn't seem fair. None of it seems fair. So much promise and so little to show for it. I feel punished for being born.
And in those moments, when my head is hanging, when the face of my reality sits so heavy, when I feel the most hopeless, when I wonder if this will ever get better, ironically, that is when I feel the most peaceful. I stop running, I stop avoiding, I slow down, take a breath and deal with what is, not what I think it should be. I accept. And then, slowly, and with aching bones, I get off the floor, look out the window and know the only thing that is going to make the shitty parts of life worth it, is to fight for the good. Right now, it's not fair, and it's not okay, but, there is nothing I can do, except do everything I can do fight against this sort of pain anywhere, anytime.
I want to join the community that is fighting for the real things of life: bread for the hungry, water for the thirsty, safety for the vulnerable and rescue for the captured. And not in jolly cute BS terms, but in the real, feet to the ground, sort of ways. I think about those that have fallen victim to a lie, to evil, to the unfairness of where they were born and when, and I think "Hold on, just hold on. We are coming for you. We are coming to get you. Don't give up. Someone hears you, I promise. We're coming. Just hold on..."
No one should ever have to pay for just being brought into the world. Life should be worth more, but if the very thing that makes it worth it, is the relationships we have to each other. You can be dirty, tired, hungry and wounded, but laughing with a loved one, a touch, a word of love, they rescue in a way that keeps us sane, keeps us fighting and hoping when everything is circling the drain. But to experience that, we all have to be willing to do it. We have to be willing to sit with each other, to bring the water to make the bread. And when we do, everything else stops mattering. We have found the place we were searching for, the wounding we have felt seems to dimish just slightly, and the future is less scary, because if we can be hope for someone else, maybe there will be someone that will be willing to be hope for us.
Love can't be a limited resource, hoarded and kept close. It must be given freely, in the face of opposition and pain. It must be a weapon against all that is terrible and ugly. It will be the only thing that makes any of the pain, stress and worry worth it. If we aren't fighting for each other, we are fighting against each other and that is when our weight, our hair and our jobs became the things that send us over the edge in stress and we sacrifice what is good and true and right.
I want to bring the water, and see the light in someone's eyes. I want to see a smile of hope when there was none because somewhere, someone heard their cry, and came for them. I want to be a part of justice, not a victim to injustice.
Of course I say this as I drink my water, looking at the clock to see if I can make it to the gym. Awesome.
As I was talking her off the metaphorical ledge, I heard something come out of my mouth that as I said it, I was struck by the truth I didn't know I knew.
"When someone is dying of thirst, they don't care what you look like, they only see the water in your hand."
I stress about my hair, my makeup or if I am running late to work. I worry about meeting the right person, putting myself in the right places, or the career I want. I get pissed about the petty and I count calories.
But every once in a while, after staring at the face of a child that is hungry, or hearing of war in a different country, victims of hopeless situations or the pain of a bitter loss, the memories of my own pains bring a rush of perspective. While I am worrying about me, I forget that what I don't have, maybe the very things that give me the freedom to be what is more important, what someone else needs. The space that seems to echo in my mind, the memories I wish I didn't have, the ability to empathize with the helpless, the victims, the hurting, it may be just what I need.
We all want to be needed, to be more important than our waist size, our skin color, or our sunny smiles. We want to be valuable, to make something beautiful out of what seems so grey and ugly. The desire to be a part of the greater, the humanity of life, the community of love and laughter and kindness, it is innate. We are born for it. Then something happens and we lose a piece of it, then another and another until we find ourselves substituting in the superficial ways. We settle for the cheap version in great clothes, beautiful bodies, the right friends and appearances. We are lonely while surrounded and hurting while succeeding and all the while, the sinking feeling that we are missing the point, pulls at the seams.
The truth is, when I risk the most, the days I give what I know someone needs and say the things that bear just a bit of my soul, loving and encouraging, when I join the fight to believe in the hope of good, I find myself in the rhythm I have been searching for. I feel good about myself when I am giving what is truly needed, I trust myself more when I am listening to the cries of those without a voice and I see my own value when I am using my gifts to help those that really need it.
The truth is, at some point, if you have been scarred deep enough, the only thing that matters, the only thing that makes it better, the only thing that helps ease the anger, is doing the things that brings the world some meaning.
I can't do anything about my past. And some days, I want to punch a wall for how much it seems to hurt and drag me down. I look back, then forward and I wonder, how am I supposed to keep moving with all this baggage? I'm tired and stiff from scar tissue, and it just doesn't seem fair. None of it seems fair. So much promise and so little to show for it. I feel punished for being born.
And in those moments, when my head is hanging, when the face of my reality sits so heavy, when I feel the most hopeless, when I wonder if this will ever get better, ironically, that is when I feel the most peaceful. I stop running, I stop avoiding, I slow down, take a breath and deal with what is, not what I think it should be. I accept. And then, slowly, and with aching bones, I get off the floor, look out the window and know the only thing that is going to make the shitty parts of life worth it, is to fight for the good. Right now, it's not fair, and it's not okay, but, there is nothing I can do, except do everything I can do fight against this sort of pain anywhere, anytime.
I want to join the community that is fighting for the real things of life: bread for the hungry, water for the thirsty, safety for the vulnerable and rescue for the captured. And not in jolly cute BS terms, but in the real, feet to the ground, sort of ways. I think about those that have fallen victim to a lie, to evil, to the unfairness of where they were born and when, and I think "Hold on, just hold on. We are coming for you. We are coming to get you. Don't give up. Someone hears you, I promise. We're coming. Just hold on..."
No one should ever have to pay for just being brought into the world. Life should be worth more, but if the very thing that makes it worth it, is the relationships we have to each other. You can be dirty, tired, hungry and wounded, but laughing with a loved one, a touch, a word of love, they rescue in a way that keeps us sane, keeps us fighting and hoping when everything is circling the drain. But to experience that, we all have to be willing to do it. We have to be willing to sit with each other, to bring the water to make the bread. And when we do, everything else stops mattering. We have found the place we were searching for, the wounding we have felt seems to dimish just slightly, and the future is less scary, because if we can be hope for someone else, maybe there will be someone that will be willing to be hope for us.
Love can't be a limited resource, hoarded and kept close. It must be given freely, in the face of opposition and pain. It must be a weapon against all that is terrible and ugly. It will be the only thing that makes any of the pain, stress and worry worth it. If we aren't fighting for each other, we are fighting against each other and that is when our weight, our hair and our jobs became the things that send us over the edge in stress and we sacrifice what is good and true and right.
I want to bring the water, and see the light in someone's eyes. I want to see a smile of hope when there was none because somewhere, someone heard their cry, and came for them. I want to be a part of justice, not a victim to injustice.
Of course I say this as I drink my water, looking at the clock to see if I can make it to the gym. Awesome.
Monday, October 3, 2011
If the Shoe Fits
A good pair of shoes is hard to come by. You can spend thousands of dollars on art for your feet, that you will only wear once. But a pair of shoes you can carry with you for years, that is nothing short of, well, epic.
Now I have many shoes. Many. I have blue suede heels, I have bronze strappy platforms and riding boots. Black heals that go with everything, and booties that can only go with on top, with one pair of jeans. My closet is literally spilling and busting at the seams. I know this, because this morning, in my usual routine of haste, I was on my knees, wading my way through the abyss of leather and buckles searching for the other half of the pair I was looking for, when I heard an ominous creaking. I froze, mid-toss of a useless non-match, and cringed. I knew what was about to happen, it had happened before. I shut my eyes, not wanting to watch what I was sure was about to unfold. After a few prolonged seconds of silence, I gingerly opened my eyes. Ah, sweet. Safe.
As I finished dropping the red patent heal behind me, it happened. With a loud crack the closet door popped off its hinge and my tower of shoes came tumbling out. Ughhh…. Oh wait! There’s the shoe I need!
I grabbed it and ran out the door with an evil laugh under my breath. Haha! You will not conquer me!!!!
But as I sat in traffic, contemplating the mess I would have to return to, I asked myself the question every shoe freak avoids: do I really need all those shoes, and really, do I wear them all? I shrank down in my car slightly as I remembered a flash of a shoe I forgot I had. Where did I even buy those?
My closet is a parallel to my life to this point; full of schizophrenia and indecisiveness. I used to think it was a tribute to my eclectic personality, now I realize, it’s not eclectic if it has no general direction or trend. Then it’s just foolishness.
But maybe it’s a little less black and white as that. Maybe the symptom is less about my own dysfunction, but rather, the dysfunction of that which I find myself in. I am never one to point the finger, or not take responsibility, but as my faith has grown bigger, so has my concept of myself. The traditional definitions have started to break down as I hear other articulating what has never really coalesced in my mind. I keep reading these books researching blogs and hearing snippets of conversations, thinking, “Yes!!!! That’s it! That’s what I’ve been trying to say, but never really could…. And honestly, I never would have said it that well. Bravo!”
Maybe it’s timing, maybe it’s age, maybe it’s the places I’ve been and the people I’ve met and the heartbreak I have felt, but something has clicked, deep down in my soul, as I have found kindred spirits in the most unusual places. I’ve found a grace that I have been craving, an understanding that frees my mind and faith that isn’t painful.
It’s as though I’ve been searching for the perfect pair of shoes, searching, failing to find, and instead settling for whatever is closest that might suffice. I’ve looked through the magazines, perused the stores, tried on and off, and what has been available has never been quite right, but it’s all there has been. So I would fork out the credit card, pay the price, but never really get what I was hoping for and after wearing the unsatisfactory shoes for a while, throw them into the endless pile. Some ended up wearing out fast, some I only wore once and some I have had for years.
I’ve done it with my faith, my understanding and my heart, for years. What has been offered has never really done the trick, but it was all that was given, so it chafed, created blisters, looked good sometimes and others just did the job of creating space between my feet and the ground.
As I think back to my limited space and the wasted money that remains in my closet, I think about how much baggage those damn shoes have created and something in me looks forward to the tedious task of cleaning out the closet.
There is no reason to settle for what hasn’t fit for so long. It may be frightening, letting go of what has been old and maybe grown comfortable with repeated wears, but an empty closet is preferable to the guilt and avoidance of the monster that lurks just beyond the thin doors. There is no need to hold to what doesn’t work anymore. No matter how functional they were for the time being. My feet need a chance to breath, to relax, to lose the callouses that have grown inadvertently from trying to force my fat little feet into shoes that they shouldn’t be forced into.
My soul needs the same.
The flimsy closet doors of my heart finally burst and a long and painful cleaning out process has occurred. So many things that fit so well for others, were never going to fit for me, but instead of the grace to see that, I just assumed it was a fault of mine, rather than faulty logic on the part of a culture, a community, or friends and family.
So, as I think about my next shoe shopping trip, I find myself hesitating. Maybe I will hold off for a while. It may just be a better idea to work through what I already have, trying them on again, working them into my wardrobe, feeling how they fit on my feet. I’ll have to line them up with where I see the next few weeks, months heading and whether or not I love them enough to pack them up and take them with me everywhere, or if they wouldn’t be worth their space.
My beliefs and feelings are going to have to be the same for a while. Before I grab something brand new, for now, I am going to have to shed some of the already dead weight. How does what I have been taught match up with what I really believe, and which needs to go? Instead of collecting pointless euphemisms and Sunday school answers until my seams are busting, the old is going to have to be compared with a greater truth, prayed over and either become an authentic staple in my faith wardrobe, or be tossed out with no regret.
And for once, I can honestly say, it will all be about whether or not the shoe fits.
Now I have many shoes. Many. I have blue suede heels, I have bronze strappy platforms and riding boots. Black heals that go with everything, and booties that can only go with on top, with one pair of jeans. My closet is literally spilling and busting at the seams. I know this, because this morning, in my usual routine of haste, I was on my knees, wading my way through the abyss of leather and buckles searching for the other half of the pair I was looking for, when I heard an ominous creaking. I froze, mid-toss of a useless non-match, and cringed. I knew what was about to happen, it had happened before. I shut my eyes, not wanting to watch what I was sure was about to unfold. After a few prolonged seconds of silence, I gingerly opened my eyes. Ah, sweet. Safe.
As I finished dropping the red patent heal behind me, it happened. With a loud crack the closet door popped off its hinge and my tower of shoes came tumbling out. Ughhh…. Oh wait! There’s the shoe I need!
I grabbed it and ran out the door with an evil laugh under my breath. Haha! You will not conquer me!!!!
But as I sat in traffic, contemplating the mess I would have to return to, I asked myself the question every shoe freak avoids: do I really need all those shoes, and really, do I wear them all? I shrank down in my car slightly as I remembered a flash of a shoe I forgot I had. Where did I even buy those?
My closet is a parallel to my life to this point; full of schizophrenia and indecisiveness. I used to think it was a tribute to my eclectic personality, now I realize, it’s not eclectic if it has no general direction or trend. Then it’s just foolishness.
But maybe it’s a little less black and white as that. Maybe the symptom is less about my own dysfunction, but rather, the dysfunction of that which I find myself in. I am never one to point the finger, or not take responsibility, but as my faith has grown bigger, so has my concept of myself. The traditional definitions have started to break down as I hear other articulating what has never really coalesced in my mind. I keep reading these books researching blogs and hearing snippets of conversations, thinking, “Yes!!!! That’s it! That’s what I’ve been trying to say, but never really could…. And honestly, I never would have said it that well. Bravo!”
Maybe it’s timing, maybe it’s age, maybe it’s the places I’ve been and the people I’ve met and the heartbreak I have felt, but something has clicked, deep down in my soul, as I have found kindred spirits in the most unusual places. I’ve found a grace that I have been craving, an understanding that frees my mind and faith that isn’t painful.
It’s as though I’ve been searching for the perfect pair of shoes, searching, failing to find, and instead settling for whatever is closest that might suffice. I’ve looked through the magazines, perused the stores, tried on and off, and what has been available has never been quite right, but it’s all there has been. So I would fork out the credit card, pay the price, but never really get what I was hoping for and after wearing the unsatisfactory shoes for a while, throw them into the endless pile. Some ended up wearing out fast, some I only wore once and some I have had for years.
I’ve done it with my faith, my understanding and my heart, for years. What has been offered has never really done the trick, but it was all that was given, so it chafed, created blisters, looked good sometimes and others just did the job of creating space between my feet and the ground.
As I think back to my limited space and the wasted money that remains in my closet, I think about how much baggage those damn shoes have created and something in me looks forward to the tedious task of cleaning out the closet.
There is no reason to settle for what hasn’t fit for so long. It may be frightening, letting go of what has been old and maybe grown comfortable with repeated wears, but an empty closet is preferable to the guilt and avoidance of the monster that lurks just beyond the thin doors. There is no need to hold to what doesn’t work anymore. No matter how functional they were for the time being. My feet need a chance to breath, to relax, to lose the callouses that have grown inadvertently from trying to force my fat little feet into shoes that they shouldn’t be forced into.
My soul needs the same.
The flimsy closet doors of my heart finally burst and a long and painful cleaning out process has occurred. So many things that fit so well for others, were never going to fit for me, but instead of the grace to see that, I just assumed it was a fault of mine, rather than faulty logic on the part of a culture, a community, or friends and family.
So, as I think about my next shoe shopping trip, I find myself hesitating. Maybe I will hold off for a while. It may just be a better idea to work through what I already have, trying them on again, working them into my wardrobe, feeling how they fit on my feet. I’ll have to line them up with where I see the next few weeks, months heading and whether or not I love them enough to pack them up and take them with me everywhere, or if they wouldn’t be worth their space.
My beliefs and feelings are going to have to be the same for a while. Before I grab something brand new, for now, I am going to have to shed some of the already dead weight. How does what I have been taught match up with what I really believe, and which needs to go? Instead of collecting pointless euphemisms and Sunday school answers until my seams are busting, the old is going to have to be compared with a greater truth, prayed over and either become an authentic staple in my faith wardrobe, or be tossed out with no regret.
And for once, I can honestly say, it will all be about whether or not the shoe fits.
Sunday Mornings
As a bigger faith has started to be born, things seem possible that never were, mainly, the miracle of a life without guilt. I know, shocking, right?
I have not been able to find a church. And to make matters worse, the more I read from the authors that I most track with, the harder it is to feel comfortable in the culture that is predominate in the area I live in. I have always sort of kicked back, but now, I don't even want to do that, I just don't want to even be around it. I feel this desperate need to shed the old and continue to discover the new and what most places have to offer right now, actually feel as though they would only damage the work God is doing, rather than aid it.
That leaves me with a dilemma. What do I do with my Sunday mornings?
I mean, I have spent a lifetime telling people how important church is, but the more I think about it in context of the freedom I am feeling, the more I wonder. Why are Sunday mornings so important?
Community, right? It's not the teachings, it's not the lessons, or the worship, and we go for community. True, but what happens when you feel more connected to the people outside of church, than you do the people in church?
I convinced a coworker of mine to read a book I am reading. We discuss it often. I go to dinner with my friends, trivia on Tuesdays, lunches, long phone conversations with one of my best friends in Tampa, another good friend in Southern California. We talk about life, the good, the bad, the new things we are learning. They challenge me, they ask me questions, we live life together, through distance, different beliefs and opinions. I have learned their idiosyncrasies, their foibles, their strengths and their wisdom. In so may ways they are my heroes. They teach me the depth of grace and the freedom of thought, the boundaries I crave and so much of the heart of God.
I read books and blogs, listen to sermons by so many different people with distinct backgrounds and individual experiences. I have found kindred spirits across oceans, states and ages. In all of my struggles, the greatest peace I have found, has been hearing a perspective on Jesus that finally makes sense, and it didn't come from the churches I have attended for the last 20 years. In fact, the churches and schools and people that I have been influenced by for the last 20 years that have been doing the most damage. A square freaking peg, in a round freaking hole.
Back to the dilemma though, I mean, how Christian am I when I don't even go to church on Sunday?
And why would it matter? I love the community I have found. It doesn't meet in a building, and some of them don't know each other, but it's more real, stronger, deeper than anything I have known before. It's a community of those that I have met and kept with me for years, that I carry with me through every season, and they are treasured. And I like that its boundless.
The community isn't named, other than the Bride. It's separated by a million miles and connected by one Spirit. It's made up of the homeless, the gypsies, the politically motivated and the homemakers. It's anyone that will converse with me about the important things and anyone that wants to live a life built on truth and authenticity. It's for those that don't settle for just anything and that have an ache for the beauty that seems just beyond grasp. It's made up of every person that Jesus came to free and it doesn't need a building, or an opening prayer. It just is.
I sit at Pete's, watching the life around me, on a Sunday morning, drinking tea and reading my book. I listen to the laughter, watch the smiles and push the chair out in front of me as someone asks if they can use it. This is my church, ever person that has ever lived and ever will live. They are a part of the beautiful story of God's heart, and they are full of His promise, and His image. And I want to see Him in every one of them. And I do.
Paul said not to live in isolation, and I laugh as I think of John on Patmos, pastoring his church from such a distance. I think of people in South America, Asia, or Africa that may not be able to make the trek every week to gather and I know the same spirit connects us all, and whatever I can do to be a part of the community that wants more and more of Jesus, is the community I have a love for that grows a little every day. My world has at once grown infinitely and shrunk exponentially. Church is every moment of everyday and my community is as far as the last human breath.
Sunday mornings mean something different now. They mean a time to sit, listen to the voices around me, to bake for my nephews, to read the paper and pray, to reorganize my fantasy football team. Right now they are no different than any other morning. I carry Sunday mornings with me every day.
It may change again someday. I hope it will. I love investing in humanity, but there are some things I do appreciate about the containers of a typical church, but for now, I am comfortable to be uncomfortable. It's good for me to shed old ways, to reaffirm the basic tenants of my humanity without desensitizing myself to the gift of love and goodness of life. Gathering as a body, no matter what it looks like, should be a privilege, and until it is again, I don't mind letting the privilege of being a part of God's church without walls be enough. And maybe sleeping in an extra day.
I have not been able to find a church. And to make matters worse, the more I read from the authors that I most track with, the harder it is to feel comfortable in the culture that is predominate in the area I live in. I have always sort of kicked back, but now, I don't even want to do that, I just don't want to even be around it. I feel this desperate need to shed the old and continue to discover the new and what most places have to offer right now, actually feel as though they would only damage the work God is doing, rather than aid it.
That leaves me with a dilemma. What do I do with my Sunday mornings?
I mean, I have spent a lifetime telling people how important church is, but the more I think about it in context of the freedom I am feeling, the more I wonder. Why are Sunday mornings so important?
Community, right? It's not the teachings, it's not the lessons, or the worship, and we go for community. True, but what happens when you feel more connected to the people outside of church, than you do the people in church?
I convinced a coworker of mine to read a book I am reading. We discuss it often. I go to dinner with my friends, trivia on Tuesdays, lunches, long phone conversations with one of my best friends in Tampa, another good friend in Southern California. We talk about life, the good, the bad, the new things we are learning. They challenge me, they ask me questions, we live life together, through distance, different beliefs and opinions. I have learned their idiosyncrasies, their foibles, their strengths and their wisdom. In so may ways they are my heroes. They teach me the depth of grace and the freedom of thought, the boundaries I crave and so much of the heart of God.
I read books and blogs, listen to sermons by so many different people with distinct backgrounds and individual experiences. I have found kindred spirits across oceans, states and ages. In all of my struggles, the greatest peace I have found, has been hearing a perspective on Jesus that finally makes sense, and it didn't come from the churches I have attended for the last 20 years. In fact, the churches and schools and people that I have been influenced by for the last 20 years that have been doing the most damage. A square freaking peg, in a round freaking hole.
Back to the dilemma though, I mean, how Christian am I when I don't even go to church on Sunday?
And why would it matter? I love the community I have found. It doesn't meet in a building, and some of them don't know each other, but it's more real, stronger, deeper than anything I have known before. It's a community of those that I have met and kept with me for years, that I carry with me through every season, and they are treasured. And I like that its boundless.
The community isn't named, other than the Bride. It's separated by a million miles and connected by one Spirit. It's made up of the homeless, the gypsies, the politically motivated and the homemakers. It's anyone that will converse with me about the important things and anyone that wants to live a life built on truth and authenticity. It's for those that don't settle for just anything and that have an ache for the beauty that seems just beyond grasp. It's made up of every person that Jesus came to free and it doesn't need a building, or an opening prayer. It just is.
I sit at Pete's, watching the life around me, on a Sunday morning, drinking tea and reading my book. I listen to the laughter, watch the smiles and push the chair out in front of me as someone asks if they can use it. This is my church, ever person that has ever lived and ever will live. They are a part of the beautiful story of God's heart, and they are full of His promise, and His image. And I want to see Him in every one of them. And I do.
Paul said not to live in isolation, and I laugh as I think of John on Patmos, pastoring his church from such a distance. I think of people in South America, Asia, or Africa that may not be able to make the trek every week to gather and I know the same spirit connects us all, and whatever I can do to be a part of the community that wants more and more of Jesus, is the community I have a love for that grows a little every day. My world has at once grown infinitely and shrunk exponentially. Church is every moment of everyday and my community is as far as the last human breath.
Sunday mornings mean something different now. They mean a time to sit, listen to the voices around me, to bake for my nephews, to read the paper and pray, to reorganize my fantasy football team. Right now they are no different than any other morning. I carry Sunday mornings with me every day.
It may change again someday. I hope it will. I love investing in humanity, but there are some things I do appreciate about the containers of a typical church, but for now, I am comfortable to be uncomfortable. It's good for me to shed old ways, to reaffirm the basic tenants of my humanity without desensitizing myself to the gift of love and goodness of life. Gathering as a body, no matter what it looks like, should be a privilege, and until it is again, I don't mind letting the privilege of being a part of God's church without walls be enough. And maybe sleeping in an extra day.
Worth Fighting For
I don't think I will ever be able to be thankful for the heartbreak of life, but I can appreciate what it produces.
When I was 16, 17, 18 and on, my one prayer was always that God would take me deeper. It was for a myriad of reasons, some of them altruistic, some not so much, but still, the prayer was always the same. Sometimes I think prayer has the purpose of changes us rather than really changing the heart of God. For some reason, that particular prayer became the goal. I don't know why, but it just stuck.
It seemed so weird. Everyone else seemed to be getting it so much more. I grew up in the church, so the right answer, the right question, the right activity, the right path, the right theology, it all amounted to the right picture. I would fight, struggle, pray, read, anything I could do to make it work, but for some reason, it seemed so much harder for me than anyone else. It never really 'clicked.' I muddled through, doing the best I could, but never really feeling the pieces fall into place. I assumed I was the problem, since everyone else was having such an easy time.
Flash forward to now and I realize, it never would be hard, if there is nothing you are fighting for.
Maybe it’s my need for perfection, but the harder I have fought, the deeper things get and the waters are endless. They move back and forth between the depth of God and the need for healing within myself. Both are overwhelming. The discoveries are great, but so much has settled in me as I realize, the struggle is what has defined me, not the success or failure.
The simple truths of living a life full of joy, peace and hope, that has alluded me, being the person I want to be, rather than the defined version of myself, living generously trusting God, these are the principles that have haunted me, pushing me farther into honesty, authenticity, understanding and pursuit. But they come from a basic belief that they are possible. If He said it, it is possible and there is no in between, so anything less is bullshit.
I laugh as I write this, looking back over the past and seeing how this principle has so deeply affected my life. I believe people, the Bible, the news, at first glance. When people fight, I assume they will make up, when something dies, I wait for it to come back to life. In some ways, I do believe everything will be okay, because He said it would be. Faith like a child, right?
A lot of life has threatened that, challenged it, compromised, that desire to believe, but something holds it together in me, and I suspect it may be the prayer I have been praying since I was a teenager. There is something worth fighting for out there. Beauty worth worshipping, hope worth heartbreak and justice that never ends. There is a God that hears His people, a kingdom based on love and a system that doesn't leave you feeling victimized.
I spend a lot of time alone, thinking, reading, praying, journaling and generally letting everything in my life settle down. I used to hate it, but recently, for the first time, ever, I am seeing not only the value, but the necessity of where I am at. I've made a lot of decisions based on fear, retained a lot of beliefs because someone said they were right and generally just gone with the flow because I didn't want to have to think for myself. Funny thing about that, you end up in a place doing the same things, gaining the same results and feeling more helpless and victimized than ever. Slowing down, taking inventory, standing still rather than jumping in, its challenging. It's scarier. But its healing.
As I continue to fight through, to let my faith be defined differently than ever before, sitting with the old and the new, it dawns how much bigger my life is going to have to be, if this is ever going to fit again. The faith that is being built, the foundations that are being set, they aren't going to be okay with a Saturday afternoon satisfying my need for new shoes. Everything is going to have to change and I'm not sure I'm ready for it. It may have to be bigger and I'm not sure what that means I will have to leave behind.
I prayed a prayer years ago, and only now am I seeing it really take effect. I stood in line at H&M returning a sweater, pants and a pair of shoes I bought (and really, really liked) so I could pay for the two kids I want to sponsor, and thought "No shit. Really?" I didn't even try to think of ways I could justify it. It just seemed right, and for once, it wasn't out of guilt, or shame. But I couldn't think of a child feeling the weight of his own existence because his life is so hard. No one should have to suffer just because they were born. That's not apart of the kingdom that I need to be in. And that is worth fighting for.
When I was 16, 17, 18 and on, my one prayer was always that God would take me deeper. It was for a myriad of reasons, some of them altruistic, some not so much, but still, the prayer was always the same. Sometimes I think prayer has the purpose of changes us rather than really changing the heart of God. For some reason, that particular prayer became the goal. I don't know why, but it just stuck.
It seemed so weird. Everyone else seemed to be getting it so much more. I grew up in the church, so the right answer, the right question, the right activity, the right path, the right theology, it all amounted to the right picture. I would fight, struggle, pray, read, anything I could do to make it work, but for some reason, it seemed so much harder for me than anyone else. It never really 'clicked.' I muddled through, doing the best I could, but never really feeling the pieces fall into place. I assumed I was the problem, since everyone else was having such an easy time.
Flash forward to now and I realize, it never would be hard, if there is nothing you are fighting for.
Maybe it’s my need for perfection, but the harder I have fought, the deeper things get and the waters are endless. They move back and forth between the depth of God and the need for healing within myself. Both are overwhelming. The discoveries are great, but so much has settled in me as I realize, the struggle is what has defined me, not the success or failure.
The simple truths of living a life full of joy, peace and hope, that has alluded me, being the person I want to be, rather than the defined version of myself, living generously trusting God, these are the principles that have haunted me, pushing me farther into honesty, authenticity, understanding and pursuit. But they come from a basic belief that they are possible. If He said it, it is possible and there is no in between, so anything less is bullshit.
I laugh as I write this, looking back over the past and seeing how this principle has so deeply affected my life. I believe people, the Bible, the news, at first glance. When people fight, I assume they will make up, when something dies, I wait for it to come back to life. In some ways, I do believe everything will be okay, because He said it would be. Faith like a child, right?
A lot of life has threatened that, challenged it, compromised, that desire to believe, but something holds it together in me, and I suspect it may be the prayer I have been praying since I was a teenager. There is something worth fighting for out there. Beauty worth worshipping, hope worth heartbreak and justice that never ends. There is a God that hears His people, a kingdom based on love and a system that doesn't leave you feeling victimized.
I spend a lot of time alone, thinking, reading, praying, journaling and generally letting everything in my life settle down. I used to hate it, but recently, for the first time, ever, I am seeing not only the value, but the necessity of where I am at. I've made a lot of decisions based on fear, retained a lot of beliefs because someone said they were right and generally just gone with the flow because I didn't want to have to think for myself. Funny thing about that, you end up in a place doing the same things, gaining the same results and feeling more helpless and victimized than ever. Slowing down, taking inventory, standing still rather than jumping in, its challenging. It's scarier. But its healing.
As I continue to fight through, to let my faith be defined differently than ever before, sitting with the old and the new, it dawns how much bigger my life is going to have to be, if this is ever going to fit again. The faith that is being built, the foundations that are being set, they aren't going to be okay with a Saturday afternoon satisfying my need for new shoes. Everything is going to have to change and I'm not sure I'm ready for it. It may have to be bigger and I'm not sure what that means I will have to leave behind.
I prayed a prayer years ago, and only now am I seeing it really take effect. I stood in line at H&M returning a sweater, pants and a pair of shoes I bought (and really, really liked) so I could pay for the two kids I want to sponsor, and thought "No shit. Really?" I didn't even try to think of ways I could justify it. It just seemed right, and for once, it wasn't out of guilt, or shame. But I couldn't think of a child feeling the weight of his own existence because his life is so hard. No one should have to suffer just because they were born. That's not apart of the kingdom that I need to be in. And that is worth fighting for.
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