I keep you close, clinging mercilessly
You drift, wandering
I reach out through the waves
water lapping over my outstretched fingers
Your eyes on the horizon, your gaze reaches for more
I tread and watch you drift, unnoticing
Look at my body floating, the darkness of the unknown surrounds
Slow the desperate flailing and ease lower into the deeper place
Breathing, trusting, staying
You are near
Out of reach
Letting go of you,
You don't leave
But I let go.
Tuesday, February 11, 2014
Monday, November 25, 2013
Pit Stop
I was in a pit on Monday. I had traveled there over the previous few days, steadily climbing down and at points being shoved down the slimy slopes by what Anne Lamott would call "the Bad Mind," and what I would call the enemy of my soul. Holding hands with my sadness and disappointment, I listened to the words that pushed me further: that this messy situation was my fault, that the path of freedom I had vied for and pursued had led us here, and that I was responsible to fix all that was impossibly wrong.
It began with fear on Friday. It turned out my teenager was imperfect, and I'd been forced to confront her about it. Not that I believed her to be perfect, but I had granted her freedom and trusted her ability to choose the right thing, and now I was staring at the evidence of otherwise. The confrontation hadn't been devastating; I approached her calmly, determined not to be condemning or shaming. But it had put a strain on our usual us - normally a positive, affectionate camaraderie. Her eyes were like two heavy, carved wood doors, closed tight and barred shut to any approach. She could smell my fear miles away, and was having nothing to do with it.
By Saturday, I had entered into full mourning. Lying in bed late, I cried and talked with J, undamming The Tears that so rarely come. After breakfast, I settled into the big chair next to the wood stove with my laptop, and there I stayed for the rest of the day. I distracted myself with encouraging video clips and Wikipedia excursions, and the day passed in teary numbness.
Monday morning came, and I had descended so far into the darkness that I could no longer see the light at the top of the hole in which I sat. I managed to make it through the home school basics with seven year old Little J, taking to the couch under a quilt by the end of the math lesson. We finished, and I crawled back in my bed where I was tortured with the weight of responsibility and all the crap that had been shoveled down the hole onto my head over the last four days.
I couldn't sleep, but I couldn't function either. I daydreamed about jumping in the Albatross (my ridiculously oversized Maxivan) and making a run for the border, escaping this mother gig for good. I turned my phone off, the ultimate sign of my descent into isolation and despair. As the minutes ticked by, I became more and more aware of the impossibly heavy weight on my chest, until I cried out loud, "Jesus, I CAN'T carry this!"
I knew I was on the right track with this thought - something about it sounded vaguely familiar - and I sat with it, realizing that to carry this burden was literally impossible. I couldn't shoulder the responsibility of my child's decisions, her chosen path, the mountain-tops and valleys of her faith, or even our relationship. I lay in the pit, underneath many layers of lies and condemnation, knowing that I couldn't go anywhere with this on me, but with no idea how to clear it off and climb out. I turned my phone on again. A couple of minutes later, a text came in from a dear friend. I texted her that I was thinking of hitting the highway for greener pastures, and a few minutes later we were talking on the phone.
The thing I've learned about being in the pit is that sometimes a dear, trusted one is needed to dig from under the heap covering me, to show me the way out, and to remind me of truth. This may take scaling down the hole into the muck, and sitting in the dark with me. Sometimes, I am so covered up that I cannot even see where or who I am. My friend told me to start talking and as I did, she spoke truth. I can't remember what she said, and knowing it was all true, I still felt stuck.
I finally said with tears, "I don't want to do this!"
She said, "I know." She said it with so much knowing, so much understanding. And so much compassion.
"I don't want to walk this path!"
"I know."
She kept at it, knowing the pain in my heart. The more she "knew," and the more she settled there in the dark with me, the less alone I felt. The weight of pain and fear began to lift off of me as my heart felt seen and heard and known. My shoulders began to feel lighter and I realized that Jesus had all of these things on His shoulders. I managed to sit up in bed as we continued to talk, and soon I was tying my shoes, and pushing out the back door into the clear, fall light. I crunched through the fallen leaves, walking the neighborhood, and rising up and out.
I have always loved the name of God, El Roi, the God Who sees. I didn't know until recently that Hagar was the person who called Him that name. She named Him that. She was in an impossible situation for which she saw no solution, only heartache and suffering. Hagar ran from her troubles to the desert, hoping to escape what felt like a life at its end. It was there the Lord saw her, heard her misery, and lifted her up and out. He met her there at the well which she named, "the Well of the Living One who sees me." And He gave her a son whom He named "God hears," just in case she forgot.
God met me on Monday, and He showed Himself. He didn't leave me alone in my suffering, but sent one of His own to lift me up, and to remind me of His promises. He let me see the One who see me.
"She gave this name to the Lord who spoke to her: 'You are the God who sees me,' for she said, 'I have now seen the One who sees me.'" Genesis 16:13
It began with fear on Friday. It turned out my teenager was imperfect, and I'd been forced to confront her about it. Not that I believed her to be perfect, but I had granted her freedom and trusted her ability to choose the right thing, and now I was staring at the evidence of otherwise. The confrontation hadn't been devastating; I approached her calmly, determined not to be condemning or shaming. But it had put a strain on our usual us - normally a positive, affectionate camaraderie. Her eyes were like two heavy, carved wood doors, closed tight and barred shut to any approach. She could smell my fear miles away, and was having nothing to do with it.
By Saturday, I had entered into full mourning. Lying in bed late, I cried and talked with J, undamming The Tears that so rarely come. After breakfast, I settled into the big chair next to the wood stove with my laptop, and there I stayed for the rest of the day. I distracted myself with encouraging video clips and Wikipedia excursions, and the day passed in teary numbness.
Monday morning came, and I had descended so far into the darkness that I could no longer see the light at the top of the hole in which I sat. I managed to make it through the home school basics with seven year old Little J, taking to the couch under a quilt by the end of the math lesson. We finished, and I crawled back in my bed where I was tortured with the weight of responsibility and all the crap that had been shoveled down the hole onto my head over the last four days.
I couldn't sleep, but I couldn't function either. I daydreamed about jumping in the Albatross (my ridiculously oversized Maxivan) and making a run for the border, escaping this mother gig for good. I turned my phone off, the ultimate sign of my descent into isolation and despair. As the minutes ticked by, I became more and more aware of the impossibly heavy weight on my chest, until I cried out loud, "Jesus, I CAN'T carry this!"
I knew I was on the right track with this thought - something about it sounded vaguely familiar - and I sat with it, realizing that to carry this burden was literally impossible. I couldn't shoulder the responsibility of my child's decisions, her chosen path, the mountain-tops and valleys of her faith, or even our relationship. I lay in the pit, underneath many layers of lies and condemnation, knowing that I couldn't go anywhere with this on me, but with no idea how to clear it off and climb out. I turned my phone on again. A couple of minutes later, a text came in from a dear friend. I texted her that I was thinking of hitting the highway for greener pastures, and a few minutes later we were talking on the phone.
The thing I've learned about being in the pit is that sometimes a dear, trusted one is needed to dig from under the heap covering me, to show me the way out, and to remind me of truth. This may take scaling down the hole into the muck, and sitting in the dark with me. Sometimes, I am so covered up that I cannot even see where or who I am. My friend told me to start talking and as I did, she spoke truth. I can't remember what she said, and knowing it was all true, I still felt stuck.
I finally said with tears, "I don't want to do this!"
She said, "I know." She said it with so much knowing, so much understanding. And so much compassion.
"I don't want to walk this path!"
"I know."
She kept at it, knowing the pain in my heart. The more she "knew," and the more she settled there in the dark with me, the less alone I felt. The weight of pain and fear began to lift off of me as my heart felt seen and heard and known. My shoulders began to feel lighter and I realized that Jesus had all of these things on His shoulders. I managed to sit up in bed as we continued to talk, and soon I was tying my shoes, and pushing out the back door into the clear, fall light. I crunched through the fallen leaves, walking the neighborhood, and rising up and out.
I have always loved the name of God, El Roi, the God Who sees. I didn't know until recently that Hagar was the person who called Him that name. She named Him that. She was in an impossible situation for which she saw no solution, only heartache and suffering. Hagar ran from her troubles to the desert, hoping to escape what felt like a life at its end. It was there the Lord saw her, heard her misery, and lifted her up and out. He met her there at the well which she named, "the Well of the Living One who sees me." And He gave her a son whom He named "God hears," just in case she forgot.
God met me on Monday, and He showed Himself. He didn't leave me alone in my suffering, but sent one of His own to lift me up, and to remind me of His promises. He let me see the One who see me.
"She gave this name to the Lord who spoke to her: 'You are the God who sees me,' for she said, 'I have now seen the One who sees me.'" Genesis 16:13
Thursday, November 07, 2013
Powerless
I woke this morning in much the same place I have been the last few days: overwhelmed by the steady onslaught of "issues." It seems I have no time to address one thing and move on before another wave hits. The last few have not been things over which I have any control, but things that leave me dumbfounded and stunned at their impossibility.
For the most part I am a feeler and when crises come my way, I like to acknowledge what is happening, process it (hopefully with one of my people), and if I'm lucky, have a good, cleansing cry. This usually goes a long way toward moving me into acceptance. Most of the time, I appreciate my bent towards feeler, despite the common cry of doer and thinker friends, "Oh, she's such a feeler!" I prefer this perspective. But this latest batch of crises have left me numb and speechless, bracing for the next wave. I wonder to myself if this is what it feels like to lose my faith. I can't hear anything but the crashing of the waves and panic starts to rise. I feel completely powerless.
I think of snorkeling on our last day in Kauai. The sky is dark and the clouds gray and threatening, but it is our last chance to get in the water and maybe see something wonderful before heading home. Snorkeling is not my favorite. Well, water isn't my thing at all, truth be told. But it is something J loves and was one of two qualifiers in determining how to celebrate our twentieth anniversary trip. I wanted to bike ride, and he wanted to snorkel, so we planned both, completing a four day bike tour of California wine country before flying west to Kauai. I had managed to snorkel with him three or four times at different locations on the island during that week, but I was never completely comfortable in the water. I was happiest when J was very close by, or holding my hand as we floated.
The water is rough and the waves crashing violently on the short beach in front of our condo, as we awkwardly flop our way into the water, fins fighting us all the way. We kick off and away from shore, swimming out beyond the crashers. The water there is choppy, and it splashes me in the face as I tread water and try to quickly put my mask and snorkel in place. The surface of the water is chaotic and I feel panic rise in my throat. I am treading frantically, and my heart is pounding as I attempt to keep my head above water. I am wearing myself out, so I tentatively put my face in the water, hoping the seal of the mask to my face is good. It is, and I feel my body relax as I scan the sea floor beneath me. I force my panting breath to slow, and my heart is no longer racing as am drawn into a world away from the chaos, the activity on the surface a dull white-noise in my ears. I float and bob and I see a flashes of color as beauty darts past me, oblivious to the storm-threatened sea above it. J holds my hand and points excitedly to a school of butterflyfish as they dart behind a rock formation. My body is jostled by the waves but I feel relaxed as long as I keep my head immersed and almost brave as long as one of my fingers is linked with J's.
I remember this today as the waves of impossibility crash over me. I grab a daily devotional sitting near me-a particular one that I haven't opened in eighteen months or more. I turn to today's date and read about how His power is made perfect in my weakness. I read that "we have not strength in ourselves for a single moment. More than this I am sure we are not to expect to be conscious of power. We will be conscious of weakness, and the Spirit's power works through our weakness." My body relaxes into this truth, knowing that I am nothing if not weak in this moment, and His Spirit promises to respond to every situation in power through my weakness. And I float, weightless.
For the most part I am a feeler and when crises come my way, I like to acknowledge what is happening, process it (hopefully with one of my people), and if I'm lucky, have a good, cleansing cry. This usually goes a long way toward moving me into acceptance. Most of the time, I appreciate my bent towards feeler, despite the common cry of doer and thinker friends, "Oh, she's such a feeler!" I prefer this perspective. But this latest batch of crises have left me numb and speechless, bracing for the next wave. I wonder to myself if this is what it feels like to lose my faith. I can't hear anything but the crashing of the waves and panic starts to rise. I feel completely powerless.
I think of snorkeling on our last day in Kauai. The sky is dark and the clouds gray and threatening, but it is our last chance to get in the water and maybe see something wonderful before heading home. Snorkeling is not my favorite. Well, water isn't my thing at all, truth be told. But it is something J loves and was one of two qualifiers in determining how to celebrate our twentieth anniversary trip. I wanted to bike ride, and he wanted to snorkel, so we planned both, completing a four day bike tour of California wine country before flying west to Kauai. I had managed to snorkel with him three or four times at different locations on the island during that week, but I was never completely comfortable in the water. I was happiest when J was very close by, or holding my hand as we floated.
The water is rough and the waves crashing violently on the short beach in front of our condo, as we awkwardly flop our way into the water, fins fighting us all the way. We kick off and away from shore, swimming out beyond the crashers. The water there is choppy, and it splashes me in the face as I tread water and try to quickly put my mask and snorkel in place. The surface of the water is chaotic and I feel panic rise in my throat. I am treading frantically, and my heart is pounding as I attempt to keep my head above water. I am wearing myself out, so I tentatively put my face in the water, hoping the seal of the mask to my face is good. It is, and I feel my body relax as I scan the sea floor beneath me. I force my panting breath to slow, and my heart is no longer racing as am drawn into a world away from the chaos, the activity on the surface a dull white-noise in my ears. I float and bob and I see a flashes of color as beauty darts past me, oblivious to the storm-threatened sea above it. J holds my hand and points excitedly to a school of butterflyfish as they dart behind a rock formation. My body is jostled by the waves but I feel relaxed as long as I keep my head immersed and almost brave as long as one of my fingers is linked with J's.
I remember this today as the waves of impossibility crash over me. I grab a daily devotional sitting near me-a particular one that I haven't opened in eighteen months or more. I turn to today's date and read about how His power is made perfect in my weakness. I read that "we have not strength in ourselves for a single moment. More than this I am sure we are not to expect to be conscious of power. We will be conscious of weakness, and the Spirit's power works through our weakness." My body relaxes into this truth, knowing that I am nothing if not weak in this moment, and His Spirit promises to respond to every situation in power through my weakness. And I float, weightless.
Wednesday, November 06, 2013
Hope
Nothing is as it seems.
Hope so fragile
Flutters on the brink.
I will it to stay
It rests
Lifting off and
Settling lightly again
A fragile flighty thing
In my hand
But not held.
Hope so fragile
Flutters on the brink.
I will it to stay
It rests
Lifting off and
Settling lightly again
A fragile flighty thing
In my hand
But not held.
Friday, October 18, 2013
When What's Lost is not Actually Lost
My mind is whirling, backtracking to all my thoughts and prayers and
tears today. Mainly, I am thinking about how I stood face to face with
God, irate that he had, at best, allowed this money to be stolen or at
worst, stolen it himself. It hurt me deeply for my dear friends who
were so hopeful and thankful for that provision. Hanging up the phone with her, I cried out, "Where are you? Where ARE you? You'd better show up! Show yourself!' And "What's lost is found, what's lost is found," over and over.
It also hurt me personally because it confirmed the fears and questions roaming around in my heart the past few weeks. It confirmed that really, he is not the God of blessing and good and growth, but that discipline and refinement were more his priority than care. It confirmed that this refinement involved the removal of every last joy and hope, that each one was to be carried up the mountain and to have its throat slit.
And now! To hear that what was lost was not actually lost, but misplaced, hidden deep, deep down in a unseen place! There all along. There, each time a set of hands and eyes searched. There, through every shed tear. There, through judgement and decision. There, through anger and through acceptance. It was always there...
I am brought once again to tears and chastened. I am stung by my lack of faith and the decisions I made because of what I couldn't see. I judge and decide that this happened, so this means... I see what I see and walk according to that thing, not the unseen thing. My faith and trust are weak. My heart is bruised and sore. I see myself, disappointed and confused and in pain, a girl beating on his chest as he allows her fit of fears to be spent before calming her.
And now I wonder while I lie here, spent of tears and emotion: what have I judged as lost that is still there, hidden deep, deep down-so deep that even I can't find it within me? What joy, what peace, what love lays deep in a hidden place, unseen and unaccessed because I have deemed it stolen? And what does this tell me about him in times of seeming loss? When it feels and looks as though God has abandoned me to the loss, and his back is turned, and I can't see him or hear him, will I believe that he still loves and works and holds me? Will I believe more in the loss, or will I trust and continue to reach out in the darkness and take hold of his outstretched hand?
It also hurt me personally because it confirmed the fears and questions roaming around in my heart the past few weeks. It confirmed that really, he is not the God of blessing and good and growth, but that discipline and refinement were more his priority than care. It confirmed that this refinement involved the removal of every last joy and hope, that each one was to be carried up the mountain and to have its throat slit.
And now! To hear that what was lost was not actually lost, but misplaced, hidden deep, deep down in a unseen place! There all along. There, each time a set of hands and eyes searched. There, through every shed tear. There, through judgement and decision. There, through anger and through acceptance. It was always there...
I am brought once again to tears and chastened. I am stung by my lack of faith and the decisions I made because of what I couldn't see. I judge and decide that this happened, so this means... I see what I see and walk according to that thing, not the unseen thing. My faith and trust are weak. My heart is bruised and sore. I see myself, disappointed and confused and in pain, a girl beating on his chest as he allows her fit of fears to be spent before calming her.
And now I wonder while I lie here, spent of tears and emotion: what have I judged as lost that is still there, hidden deep, deep down-so deep that even I can't find it within me? What joy, what peace, what love lays deep in a hidden place, unseen and unaccessed because I have deemed it stolen? And what does this tell me about him in times of seeming loss? When it feels and looks as though God has abandoned me to the loss, and his back is turned, and I can't see him or hear him, will I believe that he still loves and works and holds me? Will I believe more in the loss, or will I trust and continue to reach out in the darkness and take hold of his outstretched hand?
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