Staying Put

This is the essay I entered into a writing contest that I apparently didn't win as I never heard from the magazine to which I submitted it.  Of course now I see all the ways I could have edited it to make it better. Oh well... 
It's a little long but hopefully you can stick with it to the end.


Staying Put
          1 week down, 51 to go.  I neared the end of my first week in a year-long rehab, suddenly struck by the reality that 10 years had passed since my last sober day.  This short time of sobriety was reminding me why I stayed high for the last decade.  Selfishness, pride, irritation, frustration and a know-it-all attitude hung on me like costume jewelry on a girl playing dress up.  Thought to be glittery and sparkling ornaments that highlighted my beauty and independence, they were really gaudy embellishments hiding my true identity.  But I was drawn by their flashy allure, much like the life I left behind.  I still envisioned the streets that helped feed my heroin and crack cocaine addiction for years, the streets that adorned me with many of these dismal qualities, as my home.  I believed the neighborhoods and corners littered with dealers and remnants of users to be safer than where I currently resided.  I spent hours looking out the window of my room at night as the street lights cast their fluorescent glow on the pavement below, watching people move up and down the sidewalk, going places I couldn’t, and wishing I was free.  Freedom meant doing whatever I wanted whenever I wanted without any concern for the effects my choices had on others, or myself.  It was freedom without love, and life without love is not free.  But I couldn’t see past myself to know it.  

    There has always been a part in me that doesn’t settle down easily; a part always looking for the greener grass or the end of the rainbow, despite the cantankerous leprechaun that comes with it.  I call it Restless and it’s been with me since I can remember.  Restless always appeared at challenging times of life, my first stay in a rehab being no exception.  That first trip 2 years before didn’t go as planned.  The agonizing days of detox, writhing in my bed all hours of the night, being forced to attend meetings during the day despite waves of nausea and cramping muscles, gave Restless a giant platform from which to call.  My hatred for the place intensified the cry.  I hated the way it smelled, the way it looked, the way the people there sounded.  I really hated who I had become, but I was too blinded by my misguided perceptions of freedom, and self, to see it.  Restless took the opportunity to scream “Run!”  So I did.  I made one call to Bill and within hours our feet were pounding the pavement in unison.  We lasted one month without heroin.  Now 2 years later, we were facing a year-long stay at a new rehab or 2 more years in jail.  We chose rehab.

    I spent one week in the program before Bill arrived, and it was Easter Sunday when I saw him.   Easter had become a faint memory for me by now, much like the faith in which I was raised.  The first Easter I spent skipping church was during my freshman year in college.  That Resurrection morning found me walking home from a night of partying, still awake as the sun came up, and feeling that twisted sense of freedom again. I passed by a church where an enormous cross, at least 3 stories high, leaned against the building, and I was consumed with insolence.  I stared down this symbol of all I thought to be holding me down, much like a standoff in the Wild West.   Chest puffed like a gun-toting outlaw glaring at the sheriff, I took one final drag of my cigarette, flicked it at the cross and turned away.  Restless was silent that morning, subdued by the freedom I thought I found.

  This Easter morning was different though.  This year, Restless was again crying to be heard and I was having a hard time not listening.  I smiled when I saw Bill, by now my husband of almost 2 years.  I remember he smiled at me too.  I’m sure he was a little taken aback by the 20 lbs I put on since last he saw me, but if he was concerned by my weight gain, I didn’t see it. All I could see were his brilliant brown eyes and the hope shining through them that morning.  The hope was vivid and true and I thought for a moment I could grab it, to snatch a piece for myself, something to feed Restless so it would quiet down.  Everything in me ached to run to him, to feel him touch my skin, to have his arms, wasted as they were, wrapping around me.  I knew all too well those arms had no strength left in them, but like a child running to the arms of a father hoping he could make the deafening thunder of a violent storm cease, I wanted to believe he could save me.  Deep down I knew if I ran to him, if I tumbled into him like a dance partner out of step and missing the beat, I might knock him off his feet; I might knock that hopeful light right out of those eyes.  I couldn’t ask him to make the deafening thunder stop, and we couldn’t outrun this storm, no matter how much I wanted to believe we could.  Restless made it hard to sit still, to not run, and to let Bill’s light shine.  But I did.

  The few stolen glances I had with Bill that Easter Sunday were enough to hold me over for that day, but Monday was another story.  Monday found me back in my self-centered way of life, thinking only of my needs, my wants, my hurts, and what could possibly fulfill them.  Monday found me staring out the windows, stolen glances of the world I had left behind, dreaming of days wandering the streets snorting my dope and smoking my pipe.  Monday found me planning my escape, but not just my escape – our escape.  There was no thought of leaving Bill behind – we were a unit, a team, and we needed each other, almost more than we needed the drugs.  Every moment spent apart from him fed the fire within the belly of Restless, making it grow stronger until it was almost uncontrollable.  

  I lay in bed that night, thinking of how and when I would go, and I was scared.  I knew if I got arrested again I was going back to jail for 2 years, and the same sentence was waiting for Bill.  I decided we’d just have to run farther.  The belief that we could run away from the issues we faced was growing, and Restless helped me believe.  Running was the answer for just about everything, especially to quiet Restless.  I seemed to forget we had no money, no car, and no support in the world anywhere. 

In the silence of that night as I paused to consider the darkness around me, I heard the faint whisper of a new voice.  This voice was not my long-time companion Restless.  As a matter of fact, this voice held Restless at bay, something I had yet to do on my own.  It did not scream to be heard, nor was it frightening, but softly and clearly said, “When you run, Bill will follow.  If you love him, give him the chance to be free.”  

  There was no mistaking the message, and my heart tore in two as the words echoed in my soul.  This new voice was one of love and self-sacrifice, and I was unfamiliar with its character. It lit a spark deep within, a spark that showed the hollowness which filled my heart.  This voice asked me if I loved Bill enough to stay and wrestle my demons to the ground, no matter how much it hurt.  My answer was this: I could make no promises about  tomorrow but I would stay today, Monday, this day after Easter.  It was all I had to give, but for the first time in a long time, I gave something.

 Each day I stayed this voice of clarity and peace grew stronger, and Restless became weaker.  As I listened to the new voice, I grew to understand what it meant to love enough to stay put, to not run away, no matter how difficult the change.  Love didn’t ask it; love required it.  

  13 years down, and hoping for 50 more.  We’ve been clean from drugs for 11 years and while Restless still shows up now and again, it’s a voice much softer these days.  Learning to sit still when all you want to do is run takes time and effort, but knowing what it means to love enough to not run, to fight for change even when it hurts, is freedom, and love, worth the effort of staying put.  

Goodness in Lament

Goodness in lamenting...it's a new concept for me.  I'm beginning to understand the way the two must coexist for certain forms of forward motion and growth.  They coexist in a way which often supersedes my cerebral understanding and my soulish wailing...yet still pulling both together to meld with my deeply spiritual desire...to know and be known.
Not logically speaking, of course...more so spiritually longing.

In Goodness and Time


Swirling in these sands of time
Stuck and banging on the hourglass,
Slipping through the tiny chasms
Certain I will drown in the moments flying passed.
Songs of lament fill and resound
Circling the blackest of these spaces within.
Celebrating - or not quite - the letting go...
Of visions and dreams now slipping like lost friends.


Yet amid the swirl and impending sink,
There rests at the bottom a beautiful spring
So calm, so stable, so impressively serene,
And it give a wellness to these sorrowful things.
The hardness of sand, rough and sloughing
Is centered on goodness, so true and so deep.
As I slip through the hole and embrace the sink,
I realize what I see is not all I believe...
For the glass will be turned on its tail or its head
In goodness and time, again and again.


Praise be to You who can do vastly more...
than our eyes can ever keenly see
or our hearts can ever wholly believe
or our dreams can ever begin to conceive.
In Your hand is all space and eternity,
and all you and all I,
and all we and all me.
Praise be...You in all goodness...praise be.


Hanging on to the hope and trust in Him who can do immeasurably more than I could ask or imagine...(Eph. 3:20)

The Fullness of God

St. John of Kronstadt was a nineteenth-century Russia Orthodox priest who lived during a time when alcoholism was taking over Russia.  While other priests stayed inside their churches, waiting for the hurting and broken to come to them for help, John of Kronstadt went out into the streets to find the hurting and broken to offer help.  The story goes that when he found people passed out in alleys and gutters he would bend down, embrace them in his arm, and tell them, “This is beneath your dignity.  You were meant to house the fullness of God.”

The Incarnation of Christ, God’s fullness locking arms with man’s fullness in a humanity-altering embrace, one that would change the history of the world forever.  God embraced the fullness of flesh so one day (a day like today, maybe) we as fleshly humans could embrace the fullness of God Himself.   

He was finally with us.  He's still here, and we were meant to house His fullness.

Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men.

Embrace His fullness, share his peace on earth, good will toward men, and His glory will shine like it was meant to this Christmas. 

A Prayer of Response (excerpts from Isaiah 50&51)

O Sovereign God,

     help me believe these words in my mouth

     are yours;

Not for me, but the weary ones who pass by.

Awaken me this day,

     grant listening ears and open heart,

     to hear, and fear, and know…

Whom shall I fear?

Not the men,

     the mockers among us,

     those who toss insult like a lazy game of catch.

Do they not know?

You, even you, are comforter,

     creator,

     churner of seas;

Giving words to whom you please,

     protecting whom you desire,

     in shadows 
Of you.

O Sovereign Lord,

     remind me this day of the comfort there,

     the strength within your shadow

That is forever better

     than basking in the ever-fleeting

     light 
Of men.

O Sovereign Father,

     may your light shine this day

     as I am covered by the shadow

Of you.  

Gliding

This is one of two essays I wrote for the magazine contest I blogged about in June.  This is the essay I didn't submit and it's called Gliding.

                Ever know someone who makes you feel as though you’re home every time you’re with her?  The kind of person who, were she an actual structure, you could crawl inside, curl up and fall fast asleep in the safety of her walls, but you never really would fall asleep because you might miss something fantastic she has to show you, like a new set of china or a fabulous new piece of art she’s displaying?  This is my friend Shelby.  

            I met Shelby 8 years ago, just after giving birth to my first son.  She was a fiery red head with a personality to match, someone who by all accounts seemed completely put together in ways I never even considered.  I was fat from pregnancy, exhausted from caring for a newborn, and still reeling a bit from the sting of a year spent in rehab. She worked as a corporate trainer, wearing Brooks Brothers suits and still tucking her button-down shirts into her tailored, perfectly creased size 6 pants.  I was what you might call a peripheral part of a title insurance office, mainly there to accomplish all the menial tasks no one else had time to do, and I only wore professional clothes when I absolutely had to.  I never tucked a shirt in because doing so highlighted my bulging belly and ever-expanding butt.  As soon as work ended, I rushed home to find a pair of forgiving pants with elastic waistband and wear them as long as I could.  I probably had 9 pair of sweatpants, while Shelby owned none.  

            Shelby was married a year or so when we first met, and was by all accounts madly in love and childless.  Bill and I were into our 4^th year of marriage but our first as a sober couple so it was like we had only been married a year.  We already traveled a much harder path than many couples do – drug addiction, jail, homelessness, and rehab – which left some scars and reluctance to let other people in.  Shelby and her husband were no exception, but through a series of encounters over a period of years, we got to know each other better.  She intimidated me tremendously for the first 2 years or so that we knew one another.  She was polished and put together, I was awkward and always on the verge of falling apart.  She had an ease about her in everything she did, while I flailed a bit as I wrestled my way through life.  She seemed to glide while I tripped over my own feet. 

            I remember one of the first times I went to her house on a social visit.  She invited me over to make strawberry freezer jam one Saturday in June.  Max was just turning one and I was still trying desperately to figure out this mom thing, but I went over anyway, considering how much I truly loved homemade strawberry jam.  The home she rented was gorgeous, with matching décor, beautiful landscaping, and level floors.  We owned a duplex at the time located directly next to railroad tracks with floors in some rooms that made you feel like you were in the carnival funhouse.  She stood ready in her lovely kitchen, all her products and necessary items lined up on the counter, poised and waiting to be transformed from simple sugar and fruit into fabulous jam.  Shelby moved through the kitchen, talking as she went, and describing her actions and decisions like the best cooking show host.  I discovered later that Martha Stewart was in fact one of her idols, which was a ridiculous thought to me.  But despite our differences, I liked her.  She never made me feel frumpy or unpolished.  Instead she was gracious and kind, always offering some word of encouragement.  I found myself tripping less as I got to know her more.

            Shelby soon became pregnant as well and went on to give birth to her first daughter, Sophie.  It was my turn next, conceiving and birthing my second son, Charlie.  In the years to follow she went on to have Maggie and Noah, and before we knew it we were knee deep in sippy cups, stinky diapers, and sassy two-year-olds.  We quit our day jobs and became stay at home moms which allowed us to get together on snowy afternoons and let the children run wild while we hid in the living room, chatting over hot coffee.  We shared our frustrations and joys, funny things our children did or the irritation at our clothes not fitting our post-baby bodies.  I think Shelby picked up some sweatpants around this time, and I was able to give her great advice on where to get the most comfy ones.   

            In time we ended up working together at our church, co-leading the music team that led worship on Sunday mornings.  It seemed like an odd thing at first as Shelby was handling the job solo for sometime, but when we combined our efforts and brought together our gifts, the match was almost perfect.  Shelby was (and still is) wickedly organized and operated at lighting fast speed.  I was (and still am) much more slow and methodical, considering all sides before making decisions.  We discovered there were times for both and we quickly learned to appreciate the other for her gifts, and to utilize them when needed.  It was a unique relationship for me in that I had never spent so much time with someone who I was so different from, and yet who didn’t annoy me tremendously.  I found myself being grateful for all the ways she filled in the gaps where I was lacking.  She picked up pieces I dropped, sometimes even as they were still falling.  And I was able to do the same for her, even though I was a bit slower on the uptake.  I did more stooping to pick up off the ground what she was quick enough to catch in mid-air.  But she was giving me confidence in the gifts I was given which was new for me.

            Shelby became my best friend, which is why it came as no surprise when she and Josh announced they were moving to Pennsylvania to take a head-pastor position there.  Even though I had been privy to the intimate details all along their decision making process, it was still a harsh blow to my heart when they finally spoke the words “We’re leaving”.  I flailed internally again, much like that girl fresh out of rehab years before, and not sure where to go.  In the days following, I worked my way through all the tumultuous emotions, praying and crying and wailing into my pillow about the loss I was already feeling even before they were gone.  I knew this would mean our friendship, a friendship like I had never known before, was about to drastically and permanently change and the pain was unbearable.  As much as I wanted to cling to her, wrap my crumpled body around her ankles and cry, “You can’t leave me! You’re the best friend I’ve ever had!” something inside wouldn’t let me.  I knew I owned no rights to say such a thing.  There was a place deep inside that, despite my own selfish desires, wanted what was best for them, for her, and I knew this was it.  For what may be the first time in my life, I understood what it meant to love in letting go.  You might be thinking of the old cliché “If you love something, set it free…yada, yada, yada,” but that’s not exactly it.  You see, I never owned her, or her love.  I was given a gift in her friendship, not something to possess and hold on to, but to enjoy while it was with me; it was always free. 

Letting her go and watching our relationship change due to the distance between has been tough, but necessary.  It is still difficult to consider what I lost when she moved 700 miles away.  I am grateful for cell phones and email and text messaging because all those things help to make her feel closer; although they don’t replace the moments of curling up on the couch with a cup of coffee on a blustery winter day, children playing all around, and looking into the beautiful eyes of my friend. But seeing who she has become, how she has touched lives that would have never been touched had she stayed, and how her family has grown, make it all worthwhile. She’s changing the world one relationship at a time, much like her love and friendship changed me.  There might be another flailing woman somewhere in Pennsylvania needing Shelby’s help to stop tripping, and start gliding.  

just sometimes

sometimes I want to run fast and far

and see if there’s a chance

I can run all the way home

not all times…just some times.

and sometimes I forget how worn my legs become

because in the hollow of my mind

my legs can run and run and never grow tired

not all times…just some times.

and sometimes I forget the hard pavement

under my feet and the way the dense ground

resounds through my fragile body

not all  times…just some times.

and sometimes I think  maybe I could fly

if I slid my toes close enough to the edge

and really bent my knees and pushed hard

not all times…just some times.

and sometimes I forget these wings are not real

that these legs are weak

and the dirt sits beneath my fall waiting to break it

not all times…

and sometimes I run fast and far

even though there's pain in my faltering legs

because of  this tension between my shoulder blades

just some times…

crouching low near the rocky ledge

poised to extend these weary legs

and jump and fly and forget…

not all times…

just some times

some city life

concrete hardened

feet slapping down, splitting heels

rough on surface

oil-stained parking lots

leave memories of here and now

then and gone

oil-stained bare feet

flat with pounding this pavement

almost lost all curve

all nuance

all function

but still walking, still

black with stains of some city life

slick with the mess of streets

that confine, that define

oil-stained…

…hands leave streaks

…faces blend into night

…hearts unable to mold, too slippery

slap down, feet on concrete

hard and slick…

oil-stained.