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.

finding steps

finding myself in darkness again

eyes covered in pitch

hands still free, still groping

feeling through the blindness

ears listening  amid dull roars

mouth hanging open in dryness

getting a sense of your rub

my malleable soul recoils

as it takes shape in your hands

but gentle is your touch

and slowly I relax as the pink and fleshy parts

burn into defined moments

of clarity and function,

within this broken beauty

scooping self off the floor

shouts of Hallelujah! resound

from the bowels of my being,

like a survival cry within the wave of white flags

shadows begin to take form, and if I look too hard

they pull fear that was not there

in the pitch

but I can still feel you near

and you give me your fingers to hold,

like a child just understanding legs,

and you hold me in a light touch, guiding

forward

and I have senses enough to recognize

shadows mean some light is here

so I rub my eyes, shake my head,

reach

and step.

Old Roads

                Sitting in this parking lot that used to be a what…I don’t remember…now serving donuts and coffee, and I remember…this stretch of road and others, racing from one end to the next…looking and needing what…I couldn’t tell you then…thinking I may know a little more now…maybe…

                …I see others like us, souls with dirty hands, flailing limbs, longing faces, hurting hearts, traveling these roads and others, searching and wanting what…they don’t know…

                …I ache to reach out, caress their faces with my fingertips, offer an intimate touch, one that might bring healing…may be…recalling how the grime of choices made from a place of wounded feels, trying to wash it away, not knowing how to get it off, so getting off instead…

                …teary-eyed, my heart revisits these old roads…and I remember…pain, and healing, and I rejoice in my weeping…

                …we know…we remember…we reach…we remember…we hope…as we travel…new…on old roads.

                Never forget the old roads…remembering helps you know where to look for the others, like you.

Okay

I'm learning...

 ...it's okay for me to say,
                              and believe,
                                        I have something to offer.

This new-found understanding may seem well overdue,
                             and probably is,
                                         but it's finally becoming okay...
            ...and might even be good.

                                                               



                                           

Limping as I go

always a smear of sticky

                across the cheek of my soul

always a bit of blemish

                on the skin of my emotion

always a kind of kink

                in the hip of my spirit

that leaves me

                a little messy,

                a little rough,

                a little lame,

returning to you

where you lick your thumb

                and rub my face clean

where you smooth your salve

                over my burning skin

where you give me your arm

                on which to lean,

                as you walk me through

back to the mess,

                and the rough,

                and lame,

limping as I go

Old Friends

Old friends come back in like skipping stones

across water’s surface

in slow motion;

touching down for just a moment,

and never long enough.

Leaving ripples which flow well beyond

the place of touching,

of contact.

Finally sinking beneath what’s seen

to rest in the deep of the soul,

creating new landscapes far below,

and new currents above.  

Our shores long to be visited again,

to be stirred by the passing through,

the fine flick of the wrist

of old friends.

Still fighting

I’ve been meaning to – wanting to – write something lately.  I have all this stuff floating around in my head but I can’t seem to make sense of any of it, at least not enough to form thoughts and ideas that would make sense to anyone else.  I’m silent because I’m a little scared, and a little weak, and still a lot insecure.  Opportunities have been placed before me lately and while I am grateful for the confidence in the presenting, I’m still unsure of my ability.  I actually watched a hypnotist on Dr. Oz yesterday (let’s not get into why I was watching Dr. Oz in the first place) and he was talking about using hypnosis to tap into the subconscious mind to free oneself of negative impulses.  He was mainly talking about weight loss and quitting smoking but he also touched on the idea of freeing people from their own self-doubt and lack of confidence.  I watched intently hoping to gain a tool of some kind that I could use to pry open my lockbox of insecurity and release all of it, but after 30 minutes of watching, no such luck.  I even thought about looking in the phone book for hypnotists in my area who might be able to help me.  I’m embarrassed even writing it, but I am glad to say I did not look. 

So no hypnotists in my future, and still no tattoo (Dad), but still hanging on to the same old fears and other belaboring junk. 

And I keep thinking of the words often spoken, “My grace is sufficient for you” and quickly realizing I don’t always believe it.  This then makes me wonder if not believing takes away from the validity of the statement, or just robs me of the ability to receive its truth.  The grace eludes me, or I elude it. 

There’s been a lot of screaming going on inside my head recently.  I’ve been listening to this Dave Matthew’s Song called “Gray Street”.  The chorus at one point goes:

            “There’s an emptiness inside her/and she’d do anything to fill it in/and though it’s red blood bleeding from her now/it’s more like cold blue ice in her heart/She feels like kicking out all the windows/and setting fire to this life/if she could change everything about her/into colors bold and bright/but all the colors mix together/ to gray/and it breaks her heart”

And that’s how I feel lately.  A little dramatic, I know. 

No placating encouragement needed.  I’m just doing a little wrestling.  Really wanting to curl up under shadowy wings and hide out for a while but hiding doesn’t seem to be in my cards right now.  Getting down in the mix, in the mess, and duking it out does.  I’ll be swinging like a madwoman and hope I’m not just shadowboxing. 

Maybe one of the punches will knock loose the lid to that box…

Understanding Love

I started my new job today.  It was one of four days I will actually get paid to be at the ministry center this summer.  I spent the morning hanging out with the ladies there, chatting with them over breakfast, helping to watch their children while they smoked or showered, and helping to make sure they had what they needed to achieve their goals for the day.  Some of those goals were quite small, others a bit larger, but all were goals of some sort.  Around lunchtime, I suddenly found myself alone.  It was a bit ironic considering I went there with the hope of pouring in to the lives of these women, to be a sort of conduit of hope in hopeless places, and I was alone!  I spent several hours alone actually, and since there was no one to engage, I decided to sit on the patio with a magazine and do some light reading.  I casually flipped the pages, not very interested in most of its content, and answered the phone when it rang.  All was quiet for the most part.

As I was leafing through the magazine I came across a page about a writing contest.  The magazine is sponsoring a writing contest about “life lessons”.  The topic question is “When did you first understand the meaning of love?”  I thought to myself, I should enter this contest.  I’ve only entered one other writing contest and apparently didn’t win (or lost, in another word) but that was several years ago and hey, it was worth a shot.  So as I continued to mindlessly turn the pages of the magazine, my mind was turning pages of memory in search of the moment, or even a moment, when I understood the meaning of love.  I was a little troubled at my lack of ability to pinpoint a moment, and the more I thought about it, the more I couldn’t let it go.  Finally I put down the magazine and retrieved my laptop from the car.  I figured maybe if I started writing something would come out.  That happens to me sometimes – I start writing about some topic I believe to have a grasp of only to discover what I thought I knew about myself and my thoughts/feelings/reactions was wrong.  It’s weird.  But anyway, I figured I’d start writing and voila! I’d have a better understanding of love.

I started writing, had about a page written, reread it, then deleted it all.  

Then I started again.  Then I deleted again.

I have now started this essay three times and I still don’t know what I’m talking about.  

The stupid thing is that I have received so much love in my life, this essay should be cake.  So why can’t I figure out how to write about any of it, or really how to write the understanding?  

Sadly, I believe it’s because I have yet to gain a good understanding of love.  I can give you the usual answers: it’s a deep longing for someone, a sacrifice on behalf of someone else, a burning desire to be near another, etc, etc, etc.  We could go to the parental definition, the idea of doing anything, even dying, for one’s child, but again, that’s not really an understanding.  How do you write such a thing? 

What I began to see was I still don’t have a real understanding of love because I think our definition of love isn’t really love, or at best it’s a limited love.  We do for others, long for nearness with others, say the words “I love you” to others, almost always because of what we get in return, not what we’re giving.  Does that sound completely jaded and cynical? 

For as much as I “love” the people in my life, there is almost always something I get in return for my love. Does that make my love any less real or effective? Or is it still valid, just a little twisted?

Maybe that’s the point.  Maybe our version of love is only defined and fulfilled when given, then taken, then taken, and given again.  It’s a continuous movement that becomes tangible, realized, in the give and take.  Love changes from  a noun to a verb and back again an indefinite number of times.  Maybe that’s the part I’m just beginning to understand.  So it’s a little messy, a little broken, but still something.  Maybe that’s love here.

Being the neurotic individual I am, I had it in my head that I was going to get an essay written tonight, even if it sent me into an emotional coma for lack of understanding, or at least identifying well, love in my life.  Forget the fact that the deadline for submissions is September 15^th – I need to get it done!  But then I realized I have more processing to do, which is why this post exists.  Writing about writing - only a writer (aspiring or otherwise) would find value in such a topic.  

For everyone out there who has loved me – please hear me when I say you have all loved me well.  This dilemma does not stem from your failure to love, it comes from my failure to understand.  All of you are the reason I even bother to attempt the understanding.  You deserve it because you’ve been good at the job, which I know hasn’t been easy.

New Adventure

So I really just want to give a quick update as to what's been going on.  I'm about to embark on a new adventure, one that has been a desire of mine for sometime.  No, I'm not going skydiving (but I hope to someday).  Yes, I do plan to get a tattoo sometime in the near future, but that's not it either.  Starting Monday, a new center for homeless women and children is opening here in Grand Haven and I've been given the opportunity to work there.  I was originally offered a part time position but the hours didn't work for our family so I'll be volunteering as a mentor as well as acting as a fill-in person for the staff when they take vacations or need time off for other reasons.  I took a tour of the center yesterday after staff meeting and it is unbelievably gorgeous.  There are 6 rooms currently with the hope to add up to 33 more in the coming years.  They have already approved 5 women to begin the program there and I would imagine the 6th room will be filled soon.  Each room has its own private bathroom and there is also a communal kitchen, dining room, and living room area in the house.  This is unlike most homeless shelters in that the women who come here will be set up with an individualized program to fit their current needs.  They will be given money management training, parenting classes, communication classes, as well as a host of other "elective" classes, like health and wellness, nutrition, how to utilize the community resources available, bible study classes (if they desire), and many others.  If a woman needs to earn her high school diploma, we will help her do that.  If she needs counseling for emotional or spiritual issues, we'll make sure it happens.  It's a complete life skills program and looks like it will be really cool.


I've been given the very first resident to mentor, which is humbling for me.  We have some similarities based on my background so it seems like a good fit.  I'm not sure that I feel qualified to take on such a task, but the  call was never "only if you feel qualified".  I suppose my life experience qualifies me to some extent, but we'll see.

Anyway, just thought I'd give you the scoop.  I'm really excited to see God move through this ministry center.  I know there will be issues that arise and we'll have bumps along the way, but at the end of the day it will be good. 

So if you think about it, pray for the opening of the center on Monday.  And send one out for me as well.  I need all the help I can get!

Fabulous Las Vegas

We just returned from a trip to Las Vegas (exhausted sigh). This is our 4th time to Las Vegas and while there are new buildings going up, new restaurants and clubs opening, and new showings playing every year, it’s still the same. There is a big convention for commercial retailers there every year so Bill goes and has meeting after meeting for several days and I spend my time at the pool or running around the city, checking things out. This can be dangerous for me as we all know I’m a processor by nature, and there is a ton to process in that city. Much to Bill’s dismay, I spent a lot of time processing again this year. I must admit that I LOVE the sun and warmth, even when it gets up to 100 degrees or more. It must be because I live in Michigan where a hot day is 85 degrees, and I miss the real heat of summer. I also love the food in Las Vegas. Whatever one could possibly crave is available there, often 24 hrs a day. It’s actually overwhelming to me and I find myself paralyzed with too many choices. Again, much to Bill’s dismay I am even more indecisive when we’re there. Having so many choices makes me think I might make the wrong one and therefore opt to not make any at all. I know, I’m a mess, but this is not the point. I also find myself in awe of the sheer determination it took for people to go to the middle of the desert and create what is now one of the most widely visited cities in the country. It’s not only a popular destination for Americans, but is most certainly a world-renown destination. The shopping options are beyond comprehension and I could spend days (literally) and still not hit every store. The entertainment is some of the best in the world as well, from what I understand. There are at least 100 shows to choose from on any given day, and most of them are amazing. We’ve seen several Cirque du Soleil shows in years past and this year got a chance to see The Lion King musical, which was fantastic. So many things to do and see there, it truly is amazing.


But…you knew there was a but, didn’t you? You had to know it was coming. For all the glamour and excitement, I’m always a little tormented when we go there.  As I walked this week, I processed what I saw around me. I saw what looked to be an underpass where some homeless people were finding shelter, shadowed by a multi-billion dollar resort. I passed signs that read such things as “Vanity Club – Sin Every Sunday Night”. I walked past countless “newspaper” machines that held catalogues of prostitutes categorized by their physical traits. I saw the faces of people that came to Las Vegas to take their chances at the betting tables or slots in hopes of striking it rich, and none of them looked even remotely happy. I listened to songs that sang of getting drunk and having sex with whoever was close enough to grab. I watched people spend their hard-earned money on things like strip clubs and overpriced drinks, sometimes at 7 or 8 in the morning. I talked with old men and women who were still up at 7am after a night of gambling and hard drinking, who thought I was crazy to be wearing a tank top, not realizing it was 85 degrees outside because they hadn’t left the casino in days. This is fabulous Las Vegas.

Bill and I go round and round every year about what I struggle with when we go there. I’m not going to rehash our discussion, but I will say a few things of what we determined. First, we aren’t angry with the people we see – the situation makes our hearts hurt. Second, God loves the people in Las Vegas.

I believe what gives us such a difficult time there is that the Spirit that lives inside us is in direct opposition to the spirits that are at work in Las Vegas. We’re not at war with the people, we’re at war with the spirit of the place. Lust is being sold in Las Vegas, and everyone’s buying. I struggle with it too when I’m there. I am told to eat whatever I want, drink whatever I want, have whatever I want, no matter the cost to me or anyone else. Indulgence is the name of the game – forget everything else. And sex is the number one seller. There was an interview on the news one night that was startling and a bit sickening. The man who owns The Bunny Ranch, a legal brothel outside the city limits, was commenting on how he believes they could cut down on illegal prostitution and human trafficking in the city limits. (I can barely think the phrase “human trafficking” without an ache in my heart and tears in my eyes.)  He made the statement, “Las Vegas used to be a gaming town with some sex in it. Las Vegas has become a sex town with some gaming in it.”

So what do we do? There were moments when I felt overwhelmed by it all and I just wanted to bury my head in my book and pretend like none of it was happening. And I will admit that’s what I did at times. But there were other moments when my heart was so heavy with the mess all around, that I did the only thing I knew to do – I prayed. I was reminded of the opportunity God has given me in prayer, to be a part of the solution instead of standing by shaking my finger at the problem or ignoring it all together. My judgment isn’t going to change anything, but my prayers can. He put in my heart the desire to pray for healing and restoration of the city. (He, after all, loves cities as He designed them and plans for us to live in one for eternity.) He encouraged me to pray for the local church, for power and wisdom to battle the spiritual darkness there. He helped me pray for a deeper sense of love for all the folks who are being misled, and even those who are doing the misleading. I felt peace as I was able to lift this burden to Him. He sees it and knows it and feels the pain of it every day. I only had to face it for 5 days.

I guess what I’m trying to say is as believers in the true God of the universe, it is not only our duty to pray for the dying world around us, it’s our right and privilege to do so. He has given us a way to care for the world even when we feel helpless and surrounded by hopelessness. I am a walking example what He can do in a hopeless situation, and I must remember that when faced with what seem to be dead ends in life. And if there ever was a place of dead ends, it’s Las Vegas.

God is still there, and He’s still in whatever situation you are facing today that seems hopeless to you. So pray. And when you’re done praying, pray again, and again, and again until the peace of Jesus settles in, removing the darkness and bringing the light. Everything looks different in the light of Jesus, even Las Vegas.

I’m not suggesting it will all change when you finally say “amen” – after all, there were hundreds more people arriving as we were leaving yesterday - but just knowing God is alive, even in a place like Las Vegas, is hope enough for today. It was enough for me to be able to have a good time while I was there, and that’s saying a lot!

some silence

the weight of fear
hangs heavy in some silence
dangling overhead like an anvil
ready to crush
these are the matters of the heart….
when the silence binds us to the post
and delivers its 40 lashes
when it overwhelms as a tidal wave
filling our wanting mouths
with the salty taste of bitterness
while the even tide of its fullness
goes out, and comes in
and we’re drowning in the foamy crash
of confusion, and in the depths
of the unknown
silence.

About Bill

So last week was my anniversary, and my post was more about an overall sense of what annversaries and relationships mean to me, but I never really gave Bill much time in the spotlight.  Since he is so very deserving of the spotlight, I thought it wise put it on him this week.

Who is Bill to me?  Besides my best friend....

- he is the one who sees me at my best and my worst and always thinks I am amazing - sometimes a bit silly, but still amazing
- he is the one who carries on conversations with me about topics like the definitive variations among subcultures and how varying subcultures do and don't relate to one another and the social and spiritual impact of such failures to relate...this is one we actually had last weekend
- he is the one who tells me when to settle down and get over myself, and rarely asks if it's "that time of the month"
- he is the one who listens to every single one of my songs and never tells me any are bad (although some of them are) and goes way beyond encouraging me in the good ones
- he is the one who gives me incredible gifts like studio time to record my songs that will most likely never be heard by anyone but the people we force to listen
- he is the one who laughs at me in moments he could be screaming, and gets me to laugh at myself
- he is the one who bends to carry the weight of our family burdens so I don't have to
- he is the one who will spend a Saturday afternoon hauling landscaping debris from one side of the yard to the other and let me sit on the patio and watch him, without making me feel guilty
- he is the one who will always give me an excuse to make chocolate chip cookies, and celebrates every bite with comments like, "These may possibly be the best cookies in the history of mankind" (he's been known to exaggerate a bit)
- he is the one who thinks I'm beautiful when I'm 20 lbs overweight or 20 lbs under
- he really doesn't care that I don't wear makeup (no, really)
- he is the voice of reason when I'm being unreasonable
- he is the voice of encouragement and confidence when I have none of my own
- he believes in me in ways I may never believe in myself, and he cheers me on to do all the things I don't believe I can do
- he stands with me through every storm, walks with me through every fire, wades with me through every flood, and runs with me when I'm able
- and when I don't have the strength to do any of these, he carries me, never once making me feel any less beautiful or amazing or strong

He is truly the beautiful and amazing and strong one, and I am so grateful to call him my husband, and my friend.

Anniversaries

Today is my 13th wedding anniversary. Bill and I committed ourselves to one another 13 years ago today and man has it been a wild ride since then. I think back to this day 13 years ago and am in awe of who we were compared to who we are today. Some of you reading this knew us then, some of you didn’t, but you’ve all probably heard stories along the way.  We sat on our patio last night after the boys went to bed, just talking and enjoying each other’s company, and realized that while we’ve been married 13 years we've  been together for almost 17. That’s just shy of half our lives. We’ve spent almost half our lives as a couple. What a wild thought. It’s not that we didn’t know these numbers; we just don’t have time to reflect on them most days so it’s nice to have an anniversary to do just that – reflect. I guess that’s what anniversaries are about, reflecting on the ups and downs of whatever relationship celebrated. But our anniversary always falls around mother’s day, which adds another element all together. Another anniversary of sorts - an opportunity to reflect on the relationship of a mother. So I was standing in church yesterday singing songs of worship and praise, and suddenly became overwhelmed with gratitude once again. The line that struck me was “You are the God who saves us/worthy of all our praises” and it hit me like a ton of bricks – He saved me, and all my relationships with me. I know that seems very elementary to many, but I stood there with my boys on either side of me, holding Bill’s hand, 13 years after we said, “I do” and I was overcome once again by the transforming power of Jesus in my life. 13 years ago I couldn’t even step foot in a church without being so high I couldn’t see straight. I looked around and saw my family and friends and was struck with the reality that I don’t deserve any of this. I don’t deserve these beautiful boys who are healthy and strong and call me Mom, I don’t deserve a husband who’s still madly in love with me after 17 years of craziness, I don’t deserve friends who love me in spite of my persistent craziness, I definitely don’t deserve the strong friendship I share with my mom, and I certainly don’t deserve a God who saved me from all of the mess I created– who saved me from myself.

But God, in His great love for me…

Overwhelmed can’t begin to describe my feeling in that moment.

God’s goodness is unbelievable, and yet here I am, 13 years later with a stronger marriage than ever, with a husband who truly thinks the world of me, with a better relationship to my mom than I ever thought possible, and with the gift of being Mom to beautiful Max and Charlie.

I wish I could take credit for these changes and blessings in my life, but I can’t. All I did was realize I was lost and reach out for the hand that had been so long reaching for me. That’s it, and now I have all sorts of anniversaries to celebrate.

Thank you, Bill, for 13 years of love and strength and security and fun. Thank you, Mom for a lifetime love and support and encouragement and forgiveness. Thank you, boys, for letting me be mom to you even when I stink at it. Thank you, friends, for seeing me through so many dark times and being the light-bearers in my life. And especially thank you, God, for your relentless pursuit and your everlasting love. You are the God who saves me, worthy of all my praises.

Lost in Translation

Moving straight in a
     circular world.
Drawing lines in sand
     as grains swirl around our planted feet.
Speaking directed words
     with little meaning.
Tumbling down the slope
     of confusion and identification,
Wanting to define with
     sharp edges and pointed paths,
All the while getting lost
     in the rounded borders,
Unable to find, to define,
     the beginning or end.

As blacks and whites
     turn to grays and greens and blues,
     hues of yellows and pinks and purples…
Get lost in the beauty,
     forget the horizon and looking instead
To the open sky.