On processing...

I met with a friend over coffee last week.  We sat and caught up on the happenings in each of our lives, having not seen one another in well over a year.  There have been a lot of obvious changes in his life, and not so obvious ones in mine.  It's amazing what can change in a year. 

We talked about many things, and I was grateful to be given some insight as to where he was/is and what God is doing (and not doing) in his life right now.  Our conversation eventually turned to my writing, and as we talked, he psycho-analyzed me.  It was strangely fun and interesting.  He called me out as a processor, almost accusing at times, but in a whole-heartedly honest and forgiving way.  As I sat and listened, I realized he was right.  I think EVERYTHING through before putting it out.  What is that?  Is it fear?  Is it self-doubt?  Is it lack of commitment due to fear?  Yes, and no.  Part of it is just who I am, how I live life, and part of it is fear.  (According to my friend, I have courage to spare - I accused him of not knowing me very well.)  What I discovered in my time with him, and afterward as I talked it over with Bill (and Shelby, and Tracey, and Josh, and Heather) is that maybe all this processing is hindering the writing I want to do.  Process less...a new thought to me.  I then spent some time processing it. 
We talked about some of the poetry I've been writing and the story I've begun, and as we did I discovered those things came from a place where little processing was done.  They just came out, much like those ideas I discussed in the Death and Birth post, messy and kicking and screaming.  But that seems to be what makes for "good" art so often.  I recently read that Van Gogh painted almost one painting a day in the last years of his life.  A painting a day!  Did he process and consider every detail before painting?  Did he have a plan and outline before picking up the paintbrush?  Obviously he saw, he felt, he created.  I want to do more of that.

On the encouragement of my dear friends (who are so giving and helpful as I blindly feel my way through this new endeavor), I am purposing to process less and feel more as I work to let the writing come out.  I must warn you that some of it that has come has been rough and raw.  I hope it touches in places that only rough and raw can sometimes.  It's okay if it doesn't.  I'm just going to go with it anyway.

Medicine Men

Rhythms pound
Constant motion of sound
Lulling the breathless back to sleep.
Placated dreams wander down
Twisted streets, searching
For spaces to settle in.
Black as melted skin
Clinging to what was
And what could
Never be.

“Taste and see!” the medicine men scream
from high and lofty places
from low and desolate spaces.
“Taste and see!” they cry from
screens boards windows books
“Taste and see!”
But it is
not
good.

It’s all broken.
Put away the tools you brought
These holes have been bought
Never to be filled
Never concealed.
Holes fill the skies
Empty, dark
Tear bleeding souls apart.

It’s all broken.

Who can fix it? Who?

And the medicine men yell from
Street corners and high rises
“Taste and see!”
But it is
not
good.

One comes, not crying
not screaming to be heard
Only calling
to Fix
Heal
Restore.
Quiet in his voice
And burning in his eyes.
Wounds won’t mar his countenance
and mercy overwhelms those near.
touch, smell, hear,
taste and see
It is Good.
The medicine men calling,
And True Healing is here.

Taste and see…

Taste, and See…

Desire for Transformation

I've been sick this week. I think I had a touch of the flu – headache, body aches, fever, and chest congestion. I've had a rather unproductive week, especially Saturday and Sunday. I spent the majority of both days on the couch, surfing channels and watching whatever was the least offensive programming at the moment. As I was looking for things to watch, I was struck once again by the number of reality TV shows on these days. There are shows about everything. Just when you thought they couldn’t come up with another show about people living life in unique (but not necessarily newsworthy) ways, you find a show about people bidding for abandoned storage units. Or you come across a show about two guys traveling around looking for other people’s junk to buy so they can sell it and make a profit. As I started to consider the various reality series on these days, I began to see a common theme. Think about shows like Intervention, The Biggest Loser, American Idol, even Dancing with the Stars. What do these and many others have in common? I believe the common denominator, and what makes them appealing, is transformation. We love to watch people being transformed. We root and cheer for folks who have made a conscious decision to change for the better, or who are going after their dreams, and we like watching that transformation process. Why is that? Does it give us hope? As twisted as it sounds, I believe it does.  It speaks to the longing rooted in our hearts – we desire to be transformed. Somewhere deep inside whether we know it or not, we get that we’re all in a broken state and we want to change. Watching someone else do just that, even if it’s in a way we don’t need transforming, brings hope and communicates to us that what we all want does happen. Of course, when a star becomes a Fred Astaire or Ginger Rogers, or when a piece of junk gets salvaged and given a second chance, it’s more or less an empty imitation of what we really desire. But it’s something, so we tune in and silently shout from the deepest parts, “It can happen!”

Transformation is what we all seek, because we haven't reached the realization of our existence yet. Only through a deep transformation process can we begin to see who and what we were made to be. The problem is the transforming process is usually a difficult one, and it’s much easier to sit and watch another show about someone else doing it instead.

Sweet Everythings

Valentine’s Day has arrived. I realize that while it has its roots in something real, the holiday we celebrate is certainly commercialized and marketed to the masses. I am one of those in the masses. I enjoy Valentine’s Day because it gives me a reason to celebrate my relationship with Bill for no other reason than Hallmark says we can, and should. Sometimes we need reasons to celebrate things in life, even if they’re weak and somewhat ridiculous. I think of Valentine’s Day as one of these “reasons” to celebrate.

As I was considering this “holiday”, and making plans to celebrate with Bill (of which I will not go into detail, for your sake and mine), I received several emails and a phone call from friends, and all of their messages were filled with heartbreak. The sharp contrast of my Valentine’s Day celebration plans and these stories of longing and pain and sadness was harsh. I sat down and considered each in and of itself, trying to absorb and process the information in a way that would be helpful to both them and me.

I must admit that my first inclination was to try to find words to express my sadness in relation to the events told by each woman, somehow offering condolences that would ease the pain of the situations. Why is my default response to try and fix things? I stopped and prayed instead. As I was praying for one of the women, I heard myself pray “God draw her close and whisper sweet nothings in her ear.” And immediately I thought, “That’s not what I want at all, and I don’t think it’s what God wants to do.” I changed my prayer to ask Him to whisper “sweet everythings” instead. I realize I made it up, the phrase “sweet everythings”, but I think it works.

When I think of someone whispering sweet nothings, I think of a lover leaning close to his love, his head turned just so in a way that his lips come close, almost brushing her ear, whispering what he thinks will sweep her off her feet and into his arms. They’re words meant to move her in a direction he wants her to go for his own gratification. My idea of this phrase might be all wrong, but it is the connotation I derive from it. That’s not what I was asking for on behalf of this woman, and I don’t believe for one moment God ever speaks sweet nothings.

No, God is a god of sweet everythings. Sweet everythings also move us in a direction the whisperer wants us to go, but not for self-seeking purposes. They’re all the things we need to hear to get us through, to draw us close, to help us remember we are loved and seen by the God of our hearts, and heartaches. They are used to build us up, turn us back, let us fall weeping into the arms of the One who sustains and maintains and even rebuilds that which is broken. He wants to whisper all the ways He loves us, all the ways He wants to bring peace and salvation to a dying world, not solely for His own gratification but for ours as well. He pours out his love with the plan of moving us back to where we belong, with Him. To feel the warmth of His breath on our necks, the sweet aroma of His fragrance in our nostrils, His words penetrating our ears and burrowing deep into our souls; that is true romance. A love and a lover who can deliver on every promise He makes - something to celebrate indeed.

Valentine's Day is here.  I encourage you to go celebrate the love in your life, and as your lover whispers sweet nothings in your ear, remember there’s One who wants to whisper sweet everythings to you as well. Listen for them and let yourself be swept back into the arms that hold it all together, and make it good again.

Death & Birth

There was a time in my life when I thought every person experienced one birth and one death. I’ve since grown up enough to learn that is not true. Of course I learned as a child that one must be reborn of the spirit in order to have new life in Christ. Okay 2nd birth, not always followed by the necessary death, but that’s not the point. I’m beginning to think that life is made up of series of births and deaths, not in any particular order, and not dependent on one another. As we grow and change, new ideas, attitudes, outlooks are birthed in us. Sometimes they come with hard labor, lots of frantic breathing, and strained pushing before they make their way into the world. Sometimes we squat down and with little effort, there they are – new concepts, fresh passions - and then we get back to work with our newborn perspective. Either way, thoughts, emotions, perceptions are born and die, sometimes every day. The labor is often intense and the letting things go even more so. Why is it we hold on to so much stuff that just needs to die already? Dying and birthing repeating themselves over and over again if we are willing to let go, breathe, and sometimes push; sometimes push REALLY hard.

It has not eluded me that dying is hard, and living is often harder still. I think personally I struggle more with the living. Can’t I just “be”? But there’s not a lot of living in just being. A wise man recently told me “Good is the enemy of Great.” I believe he got that line from a book. I’m actually not certain how wise he is, but he has the gray hair and glasses for the gig so we’ll give him the benefit of the doubt. It works for the illustration anyway. The point here is I don’t want to settle. I want to birth new ideas and let some of the old ones die. I want to make room for the new life that wants to come, regardless of the labor pains that come with it. Maybe the past 10 years have been the equivalent of 9 months of pregnancy. Up through about the 8th month of pregnancy I was afraid of what labor and delivery would be like. In the 9th month, I was so insanely uncomfortable it really didn’t matter what kind of torture I had to endure to get the baby out – it was coming out. (For those of you who knew me when I was pregnant and remained my friend, I want to take this opportunity to apologize and say thank you.)

Lately that’s how I’ve been feeling - let's get on with it. Breathe deep, push hard, move the ideas out of the incubator of the soul and into the world, messy and kicking and screaming. So what if they’re not pretty? Let’s be honest – newborns usually aren’t, but they’ll grow.

On Being Cold, and Grateful

We took a family trip north this past weekend to go skiing. Skiing is not the best in Michigan, due to the fact that there are no mountains here, but we’ll take what we can get. We traveled north to stay at a friend’s cottage and this cottage while not large or elaborate by any means, is very close to Lake Michigan. I believe my friend called it "a little humble place" which describes it well. You can see the lake from the living room and can hear the waves crashing against the shoreline. It wasn’t terribly cold by Michigan’s standards, but Michigan is cold relatively speaking most of the winter, which means it was still cold by most people’s standards (unless you live in some crazy place like the Antarctic, or Cheboygan).

It was Friday night and the boys had just gone to bed. Bill was building a fire in the huge stone fireplace and I was snuggled up under a blanket, ready to watch whatever we could find on television. The TV was turned down low so as not to keep the boys awake and Bill was quietly rearranging logs, trying to get the fire going.

That’s when I heard it.

The wind had picked up outside and as I listened I could hear it brushing against the sides of the small cottage. The waves on the lake were building as well and I could almost feel their frigid chill as they lapped against the ledge of ice that had built up on the beach. The wind ebbed and flowed, much like the waves, and it blew into my mind a memory. I sat and listened and remembered a time, a time that seems to be ages passed, when I had no place to hide from the wind. It still amazes me how quickly I can recall what it was like to sleep in the wind and the rain, the cold of the night pressing heavily on my shoulders, back, and chest. What it felt like to be so cold that sleep was impossible and while many in the town slumbered, I aimlessly walked, trying to make my legs stop aching, trying to make my jaw stop quivering. Sometimes it seems like someone else’s life, like it was a story I heard about what it was like to be homeless – a 3rd person narrative. But then I remember this story is told in first person, and I’m the narrator.

This has happened to me repeatedly over the years. I’ll be lying in bed listening to the rain fall hard against the roof and remember seeking shelter from a cold October rain. I’ll step outside my door on a snowy winter morning and remember opening my cheap motel room door to get the milk that was kept out in the snow, hoping it wasn’t frozen.

And what comes next, after the memories, is a sense of overwhelming gratefulness. No, I’m not usually brought to tears, but my heart jumps just a little whenever I consider from what and where I’ve been brought. Remembering that 11 years ago, on my best days I was dodging angry motel owners and on my worst, dodging the cold of the night air, sets me back just a little. Grateful is the only word I can use to describe these moments of memory.

Sometimes I lose sight of this grateful attitude. I get caught up in what I don’t have – more time, more energy, more talent, more resources, more, more, more. But then God gives me a pause in life when I can hear the wind breathing hard on the exteriors and I am reminded of the shelter He has given me. And for just a moment, I am grateful once again.

I have asked Him to never let me forget those cold and lonely nights because I often need a nudge back to where I should be – grateful. When perspective gets misdirected it’s hard to be grateful. Just keep listening for the wind and let it remind you. Rest in those memories until you return to a place of gratitude, and then rejoice and be glad.

Shutting Down

Today is a shutting down day for me. Have you ever had a shut-down day? What I mean is, I literally feel like I’m caving in on myself. Gravity has taken over and I'm being pulled down and in.

I woke up late (7:30 instead of 7) and felt scattered most of the morning. I was able to handle all the usual responsibilities with the boys – feeding and clothing them and getting them to school on time – but my head wasn’t really there. I dressed for the gym, my plan being to drop the boys at school, get to the last 15 or 20 minutes of prayer meeting, and then go workout.

I made it to school and back home.

I read some of Ecclesiastes which was not terribly helpful in my moment of clouded thinking, and then proceeded to the couch to pray. As I prayed I found my prayers to be almost as skittish as the squirrels I watched run up and down the trees out my window. Yes, I was watching the squirrels while I was praying. (I told you I was scattered.) I found myself praying random things in no particular order and with very little concise thought. Not my usual way of prayer, but this does not seem to be a usual day. I actually found myself uttering something to the effect of “God, I pray for everyone everywhere.” What?
I know there are numerous situations in the lives of friends and family that need prayer today but I can’t seem to put any of them out. There is something going on inside me and I can’t put my figurative finger on it. No, I’m not depressed – maybe just needing some introspection.

I’m grateful I have been afforded the opportunity to shut down. I will purpose to use the caving in to explore the deeper recesses, the hidden places of my inner parts, with the hope that I’ll come out on the other side with all my limbs still intact and maybe a little more clarity.

I would like to hope that everyone has time for a shut down day now and again. If you haven’t in a while, find some time to do it. Maybe it’s not a whole day, maybe it’s just an hour. But use it to shut down and tune in. It might be interesting what you find.

Wanting

Persistent notions of us and isms
Perpetual longings for Them and truth.
Hearts and heads, spinning, aching for
that which eludes,
Intimate touch between souls,
In spirit and…

Whispers of the sacred
Dripping with the sweet salty flavor
For which we thirst.

Tongues swollen and bruised
Waiting to drink in
What satisfies, settling for
Worthless counterfeits,
Throats still dry, voices
Weary and hoarse from our crying.

When will we drink You in again?
When will we be satisfied?

You cry.

Speaking of stories...

So lately I've been getting a "sense" that I'm supposed to tell my story. The problem is I'm not sure exactly how to do it, or which part of it to tell. There are so many stories within the bigger one, and trying to determine which ones to tell and which ones to skip over is very difficult. Some are so ridiculous it's hard for even me to believe they're true, and others seem to have nothing more than shock value, which makes them seem less important. But is that true? Is there value in telling some of the more shocking stories, if for no other reason than to give a better understanding of what depth God pursued me? I often hear people, many in the Church community, say we don't need all the details because we have a tendency to get caught up in the details and miss the bigger picture, that being God's redemption and healing. I've been trying to fit that thought together with the still, small voice I keep hearing which has been quietly saying, "I gave you a story - tell it." Okay, which part?

As crazy as it sounds, even after 11 years of sobriety, I still can't seem to get my head wrapped around the entire story. It comes in smaller details and memories, and some of those memories are painfully ugly. Others are beautiful. But I don't think I can leave the ugly behind and just take the beautiful - their beauty might not shine quite so much without the contrast of the ugly.

I guess that's the overall gist of the story - God took something quite ugly and made it beautiful. Figuring out how to "tell" it well, that's another story all together.

Thoughts?