Elephant

Never apologize for who you are, she says

For then you are apologizing for the truth

But what truth? You reply

For truth is an elephant

Innocent, exotic, immense, unforgetting

And we are all blind beggars

Invite us to touch and we will stumble

Who knows where we will land?

Who will you meet when you touch her?

She is love and her love is a trunk generous and enveloping

She is courage and her courage is a back resilient and sustaining

She is the hind legs of righteousness

She is the soft lips of beauty

She is the mindful ears of wisdom

All wrapped in the skin of an experience

That every blind man begs to define

Can anyone fully know without asking her?

She sits awkward in this room

This is what it means to be happy

My friend asked me today, "Does getting older bother you?"

"Not at all," I answered immediately. "I embrace it." After a moment, I continued the thought. "I hated my twenties. Turning thirty felt like a rite of passage. I remember saying, 'Now I don't have to be twenty-anything anymore.' I am just convinced that the best is yet to come."

"I can see, for you, that that's true," she remarked.

"Yeah, I really believe it is. I don't mind getting older because I'm truly enjoying my life right now, just for what it is. There are things that I would change if I could, but I embrace things for what they are. Even with the things that I would change, I am finding the good that is available to me there. That is the difference between just surviving and really living. And there is still so much to look forward to."

[Dear reader, I think it can be this way for you, too.]

Sugar and Spice vs. Snakes and Snails

I just had a passionate and inspiring conversation with one of my favorite women. My friend, a passionate and inspiring woman herself, always stretches me with her compassionate and thoughtful intensity and her heart for people and ministry. When we talk, we always walk off the beaten path to the thicker parts, the important parts, because it's as if we can't even help ourselves. Two intense women on the phone will always find a way to try to solve the problems of the world!

I don't even know how we got on the subject, but we started talking about leadership and sexism in the church. We both have received callings in our lives for ministry, and we met in college where we were being equipped in these callings. Our life journeys have taken us to different places on the road, though. She is pursuing a calling of leadership in the church, and I no longer am. My friend is discouraged. She has been in many leadership roles in the church and experienced sexism so much that she feels that the church is hierarchical and views women as the lesser sex. I think many (maybe even most) people view the church like this as well, so I thought I would take just a moment to get on my little box here and share my own view with the 7 of you.

Before I do, though, I will pause for a brief moment to share how many times I misspelled the word "hierarchical": six.

Okay, moving on.

I think this issue is important and one that relies on perspective. 15 years ago, I was pursuing a career in church leadership, and for reasons I both know and don't know, I've never been fully raised up or released to be a full-time church leader (pastor, minister, etc.). My life has taken many twists and turns since then, and throughout the journey, my perspective has changed. I used to be fairly progressive and believed that women should be empowered to do anything in the church that a man could do. I don't believe that anymore. Not because women are a lesser sex but rather because women are the more honored sex.

It is clear that God has always honored and revered women because of the way He treats them. He has always given them an honored place in history; it is humankind that has been guilty of sexism, not God. The Bible is full of examples of incredible women who furthered God's work on earth because He raised them up to do so. (Great examples: Deborah, Esther, Abigail, Lydia and my favorite, freaking Rahab.) In fact, when Jesus was raised from the dead, the first witnesses of the gospel were not men but women. He entrusted His good news to women first and required that the gospel be spread by a man listening to a woman. This happened within a culture that would not allow women to testify in court because a woman's testimony was "not reliable!" The gospel and the church transcends and transforms culture! Here, it makes women so important in the church that the good news was given to them first and the ministry of sharing it with the world was given to them first. The good news spread because of women. So God does not keep women out of the work of the church; He was the one to raise them up in the church in the first place.

But full time church leadership is extremely stressful. I'm talking about eldership that guides, directs, teaches, and disciplines. The inner as well as outer demands on the person in this position are absolutely enormous. It breaks the back of the soul. God requires a sacrifice from His servant leaders that is so taxing and difficult, and frankly, it's one of the hardest and most thankless jobs on earth. (Only one other job compares with it in my mind, and that's parenthood.) I think that God loves women so much that He doesn't want us to have to do put up with the crap that pastors have to put up with. The attacks from the evil one, from church members, from the world ... God loves women so much that He wants to protect us from that. He gives the grunt work to the guys.

I don't believe this is sexist at all but actually rather beautiful. I think we see a type of this in the way that God made us in our romantic inclinations. "When a man loves a woman, she can do no wrong ..." and all that. Okay, so the song wasn't written by St. Paul or anything, but the truth is, a man works very hard to love his woman and when the love is true, all the sacrifices he makes are for her. A true man never works for his own gain but rather for the gain of those he loves. In this lies his true strength and power.

If our full time pastors and elders truly looked at themselves as servants, then the act of serving is an act of loving and honoring. Everything they do is for the glory of God and the gain of others. If men, who are called to be the head of their home as Christ is the head of the church, are to love their wives as Christ loved the church and gave His life for her, then it is logical to conclude that these same men - married or not - should give their lives in leadership of the church for all. And God says, "Ladies, I love you so much that you are off the hook for this one. Let the guys sweat it out." It doesn't make me think that God loves girls less; it makes me wonder if God loves girls more.

Now for the disclaimers. Yes, I think that women can and should be ministers in the church. The first ministers of the gospel, again, were the women at the tomb, and so they are our examples. I know of many women who have staff positions at churches who teach, lead and manage ministries. Being an elder or pastor is a different role, though. No, I do not believe that a conservative view of women in church leadership automatically means I believe that women should not be allowed to speak in church or that they should cover their heads. Context, people. Babies and bathwater.

So, there you have it. I do apologize for the lack of Scripture references; I admit that I'm lazy. I'm just thinking off the top of my head here.

Hurricane Glass

Something inside of me is sleeping like winter.

The fire blazing that threatened to consume me
is barely now a flicker.
I can still see in here -
surely it is casting its light -
but it is now a lone votive memory of my burning.
I miss being consumed.
In my dying I felt alive.
I wanted more even as it ravaged more of me.
But now it is gone.

Strangers offer fuel and I say no thank you
as if they were offering a magazine subscription
or a carpet cleaning.
I wonder if something vital has left forever.
I wonder if I can ever recover it,
if the wick is too short or the room too small.
Maybe it is to be more than a memory
but also a beacon.
Maybe I see it from the sailor's view,
and as he draws nearer,
perhaps it will grow brighter.

The raging fire is at war with the world,
but the flickering candle serves the world
and needs protection from the world.

Picture

He stands against the sky
broken
looking over the drop of the garden
into the face of the gods
so long he looks and still he
does not know his own face
time slipping breaking against the stones
this is as far as you go
he screams with his soul
before you die

A moment against the wind
steady
facing his rage of years, casting
off the edge with his eyes
silent fear hurtling against
the blood red stones shattered
so long he stands until the years silence
this is as far as you go
he whispers with his soul
before you live again

Of shelter and rain

It had been raining all day. I had been inside working on things and needed a break, so I went out on the porch for a minute to watch the rain. I sat down on the chair on my porch, and Wrigley jumped up on my lap. Damn cat. He's been doing that. This cat knows I don't like him. It's not personal; I actually have more compassion on him than most animals. He was abandoned by his owner, a neighbor who moved away a couple months ago, and we've all been looking out for him since. Like I said, it's not personal. It's just that I don't like cats. Wrigley doesn't seem to mind that detail. If he does, he just ignores it. He's been outside so long now that he just wants to be loved. So, for a few minutes, I loved him.

I held him and pet him. He nuzzled his face in the crook of my elbow, then pawed my stomach the way that a cat will. Spencer used to do that. Spencer was the only cat I ever liked. He was my sister's cat, and he was huge and warm and very loving. He was a cat who gave so much affection. Wrigley's affection is different, though; his affection is not a giving but a taking. He is cold and lonely and he just wants to be loved. You can always tell the difference. You can always sense when the affection is a giving or a taking.

For some reason, it occurred to me while I was holding him that I have always believed I was a "good girl." It's only been this past year that I have realized that I'm not. I recognize that there is no one good among us, no, not one. But I wanted to be good. More than that, I wanted others to believe I was good and praise me for being good. Now I believe that, all this time, everyone else already knew what I didn't know. I think the only person who believed I was a good girl was me.

Makes me wonder what language Wrigley was purring in, if he was saying something in the affection he was asking from me.

While I do believe I am lovable, I no longer believe I am good. I know too well the sin of my heart. I am chief among sinners. I don't care how that sounds or how a stranger to my heart will interpret that. (We are all strangers to each others' hearts, anyway.) Anyone who is close enough to God to understand will only argue that they themselves are the chief and the discussion will simply end.

And I am only lovable because I was created that way. We all were; we are all lovable. It is our intrinsic nature to be loved because God is love, and He made us in His image. We can no more make ourselves unlovable than a tree can make itself a lamp. A tree is a tree; it is what it is. Even a sickly deformed unattractive tree is still a tree. So even the "worst" among us are still lovable. We are lovable because God created us to love us. We are who we are.

The problem is that we don't want to be loved by God; we want to be loved by each other. And we are not good at loving each other at all.

We sacrifice God's love on the altar of desire for love from other people. From our parent, or our peer, or our mate, ad infinitum. All the more do we stab and spill His love when our parent abandons or disappoints us, our friend mistreats or judges us, or our mate rejects or betrays us. Those are the times when we get really angry, and we shake our fists at the sky. I think it's because of how deeply we long to feel with our immediate senses. We want an immediate pay-off in love. We ignore that love is for investment, not withdrawal, and the best investments take commitment over time. We ignore that love is for the giving and not for the taking. We ignore the God who loves us, who made us to love us. We ignore Him, that is, until we need someone to blame.

I do wish God would put some skin on again and get down here. I wish He would show up on my doorstep with some fresh baked chocolate chip cookies, sit next to me on the couch and watch a movie, then climb in bed behind me and turn off the light. I'm sorry, but who doesn't want God right here and right now? Perfect love to feel and touch, right here and right now. When we get too antsy for it, aren't looking in the right place for it, or downright blame it for our pain, we'll settle for some pretty substitutes just to get respite from the rain.

What Wrigley doesn't know is that he has a new home. In two weeks, he is getting picked up by a couple who want him and have been waiting for him but couldn't come by to get him until then. Every day he wanders around thinking that he has no home, but he really does have a home. He really does have a place where he belongs. He just isn't there yet.

I wonder what that will be like for him when he has his own place. His own scratching post, his own sweet spot on the couch, his own bowl with his own food. I wonder what his purr will sound like when he is burrowing his face in the arm of the one who will love him for his life. He will no doubt forget about the momentary warmth of my arm.

I gazed so long into the great aching sky

Lay down my head by the wayside
My worn out shoes
Quite why she went I can't decide
Yeah but I sure could use
One plate of food steaming and hot
Clean linen ironed
On a fresh made bed but I ain't got
One salty dime, one salty dime

Just close your eyes it won't take long
It won't hurt a bit
Telling myself I could be strong
Or some such brave bullshit
Trucks are roaring by I'm a red ghost
In their tail light gleam
I'm a tumbleweed, I'm a spit roast
Just turning in your flame
Oh my darlin' Kathleen
Oh my darlin' Kathleen

Cars they sound like waves that are breaking
On some distant shore
I gazed so hard into the great aching sky
It seemed that I, I wasn't here no more
That my rushing blood was a river
My eyes two stars
My blowing hair all a quiver
A whispering field of grass
That murmurs as you pass
Oh my darlin' Kathleen
That whispers out your name
Oh my darlin' Kathleen
Oh my darlin' Kathleen

Why Donald Miller Works

I just started reading A Million Miles in A Thousand Years. The buzz on this book is incredible. I already knew I'd be reading it; I'm a huge Donald Miller fan. I fell in love with him a few years ago - like every Christian metrosexual, emergent church planter, and red-blooded housewife in America - after reading Blue Like Jazz. I only read it because Leida made me. And by "made me," I mean she gave me a copy for my birthday. I read it because it exists in print. Don't let any paper with words anywhere near me or I will read it. Bind it and give it to me for a gift and I'll even eat it for breakfast. I love to read books.

But I didn't really want to read it. I was skeptical. Don came along soon after my respite from Protestantism in the Orthodox Church. I was suspicious of his post-modernity and the fact that so many post-moderns loved what he had to say. I don't know if that was the right way to feel, but I'm a student of psychology, so I am now more interested in what my fear says about me.

Well, I loved Blue Like Jazz, and I loved Donald Miller. I loved walking with Don inside his eyes and listening to his heart pound. He has that way, doesn't he? You feel like you are inside him. It's really courageous how he invites us to ride his stream of consciousness. We get to climb into his Iron Man suit and fly around his world for awhile. The way he sees it, it is a beautifully heartbreaking but triumphantly hopeful world. It's a great ride.

I have a few of his other books too. I was very stirred by reading Searching for God Knows What. To Own A Dragon particularly moved me because I never imagined that the experience of abandonment by his father would so closely mirror my experience of being abandoned by my mother. I didn't expect that.

Now I am two chapters into A Million Miles, and I am already convinced that this is his magnum opus. I've never read such an unconceited memoirist. He is so evocative yet unassuming. And this time, he's funny. Like, really funny. He uses humor in all of his writing, but this one has me laughing out loud. I am hooked. Not just hooked on the story but hooked on him.

Because here's why Donald Miller works: as a character in his own story, he is honest and vulnerable. When we are honest and vulnerable, we open a relationship to intimacy. The two necessary elements of a growing and deepening relationship are honesty and vulnerability.

It's inspiring, really, for a writer like me. I read him and I am motivated to write my own story. I'm really pissed that I haven't done it already because now, I'm too late. Not that it's too late to write my story, but it's too late to get it out there before the million other people who will now write their own story because of this book. Now I will be just like everyone else, and you know how I hate that.

I've wanted to write my story since I could put pencil to paper. In first grade, I won a Young Authors award for my story of a little girl who was in the circus and wanted to be a little trapeze artist because she wanted to be like that beautiful woman who wore the sparkly outfits and walked on the air. She asked the woman if she could be a trapeze artist too and the woman said yes and the woman adopted the little girl and made her a little trapeze artist. And they performed in the circus together, the little trapeze artist and her new mother.

Even then, I was trying to write my story.

But, like every writer, I am convinced I am not a good writer. I let it all get in the way. There are already too many books full of writers' introspective naval gazing, so I'll spare you my excuses. The truth is I am afraid. I am afraid you won't read what I write, and if you do read it, you won't like it, and that will mean you don't like me. Now that a guy like Donald Miller is on the scene, the fear is even worse, because we don't just like the way he writes. We like him. The way I write is similarly personal. If no one reads me, does this mean no one likes me? What's worse, if they do read me, does this mean they really won't like me?

It's true that he is a master storyteller, a painter of words. It's a rare gift, his, to connect the way he does. But he connects because he is honest and vulnerable. In his honesty and vulnerability, we connect with him because his opening makes us open to him, and then we see ourselves. I am not a man. I did not grow up without a father. I have never been to Portland, and I have never made out with a girl, but whenever I read him, I see me. And I see a bit more of God. And it works.

Far more precious

God is always speaking. He is a kinetic God, always at work, always moving, always communicating, always creating. He tells us that He never sleeps. When He is working, He is speaking. The prophet Elijah heard His voice in the breeze. My friend hears His voice in her garden. Another friend hears His voice in her music. When we have ears to hear, we will hear Him.

I’ve told you that God talks to me. He does. He speaks to me as He speaks to all of us: through His Word, through His church, through worship, and through creation. Beyond that, He will prompt me specifically, at times, to obey Him or follow Him in a particular way. There is a way that I hear His voice, and I always struggle with exactly how to describe it. It’s a resonating timbre of cadence that I hear in my head and in my heart and in my womb. I know His voice, and sometimes I ignore it. God forgive me when I ignore it. Most of the time, I try to follow it. I do confess that, sometimes, I don’t. And He never lets me get away with that.

Recently, God has been organizing my life in a beautifully undeniable way in order to heal some deeply wounded and broken places in my heart. Recently, within my journey to this healing, I stumbled over myself and was hurtful to someone important. I ignored the fact that we are all made in the image of God and, therefore, we are all immeasurably valuable and incredibly vulnerable, deserving of reverence and grace. By ignoring another’s worth, I ignored my own. I was untrustworthy. It hurt.

Have you ever done this? Have you ever been hurtful, unkind, selfish, or cruel? I am certain we all have. People are messy, and relationships are uncontrolled experiments with variable outcomes. You can’t really know what you’ll do sometimes when you find yourself in unfamiliar territory, and experience is the one thing you don’t have until right after you need it the most. Suddenly you learn terrible lessons about your own humanity.

For a time, I stopped listening, and it was hurtful. I think I hurt myself more than I hurt anyone else. Being a trustworthy person is primarily about being trustworthy with yourself.

God spoke to me soon after and told me to ask for forgiveness.

I knew it was God saying it because this kind of directive is characteristic of God. He teaches us that our ministry as believers is a ministry of reconciliation. We are to work to reconcile ourselves to Him, for we are separate from Him because of the sin in our hearts and the brokenness of the world. We are also to work to reconcile ourselves to each other, for we are the Church – His beautiful Bride – and we are not to have anything between each other. We must bind ourselves together in His love. It is not an easy task. We are so hurtful to one another … so unkind, selfish, even cruel. We who belong to Him can be even more so, for we know the way we ought to live, and when we don’t, it is a betrayal.

The moment I asked for forgiveness, I sensed I had done something big. I don’t mean that I deserve any praise – in fact, I deserve none at all - or that what I had done was some monumental accomplishment – because it certainly was not. It’s just that I was in awe, in that moment, of the power of God in humility. I was struck by how life is measured by moments like those, when we admit our shortcomings and ask to be released from any debt we incur with another because of them. It is an incredible door that both slams in the face of hell and opens to us a view of heaven. Heaven must be a place where true relationship is possible, where we can live relaxed and open to all of the love, compassion, grace, and connection that is available to us through the redeeming work of Jesus Christ. We attempt these relationships on earth and fail continually, of course, but God is always speaking to us. He is teaching us and guiding us, and when we listen and do what He asks, He brings us one step closer to heaven, even heaven on earth. That is the true work of the Kingdom. That is the really big deal.

It occurs to me now that I often associate God’s voice with the voice of Father Patrick Henry Reardon. Anyone who has heard Father Pat speak would sympathize with how I could make this association. If there is a man with a voice like God's, it's him. His voice has a rich, thundering tone, one that would blow a roof off a building if he were to be inspired to raise it loud enough. There are many reasons I would never want to make the man angry, but one is that I don’t want to hear the sound of his voice telling me why he was. Yet, when he speaks, his voice is tender in modulation and loving in character. It is gentle and powerful. His voice is like the ocean.

About eight months ago, during one of our periodic (but too infrequent) phone calls, I was talking with Father Pat about my vulnerable heart and how I was treading the rocky path of its healing. I will never forget what he said: “Be very careful, dear. Your soul is a jewel; it is not a piece of iron. It deserves the care of a jeweler, not a blacksmith.” When I first heard the words, I believed that he meant that I needed to find someone special who would care for me as the curator cares for the Hope Diamond. I believed that this job description would surely best be filled by someone else who would come along one day. I was wrong. I have come to realize that no one can do for me what I need to do for myself. It’s my job. I am the jeweler. I need to be trustworthy with myself, first and foremost, to treat myself as the immeasurably valuable and incredibly vulnerable creature that I am. Insofar as I am trustworthy with myself, I must always take care to be trustworthy with others.

I can only be trustworthy as long as I am listening to God. And He is speaking. Even when He is silent, He is speaking.

He is speaking.

My favorite time of the year

I love autumn.

I love it. I love the colors and the crispness. I love layering my clothes and wearing my denim jacket. I love caramel apples and hot cider and bonfires and football and turning the heat back on. My favorite weather is clear sunny days that you step onto the porch and have to go right back in to grab a sweater. Nothing like it.

I love autumn because of all that it represents. The seasons have always been so symbolic to me - of change, of growth, of rebirth. Fall is particularly romantic. Nature is recreating herself again. Halfway between beaches and snowbanks, Autumn strides in and does her yearly cleaning. Dusting off the dry leaves, putting the daffodils and dandelions to sleep, and sending the sun to rest behind days of cloudy skies. Something is about to change. It is as if the world is taking a nap before it braces itself for winter.

I believe that we all go through seasons in our lives. Summer days are happy and carefree; winter days are gray and languishing. Often, in our human shortsightedness, we do not recognize that we are in either one. But spring and autumn are different; each are so vibrant and definable in their transformation that we cannot miss them. Spring is when all is reborn and hope is anew. Yet Autumn is when the most is possible! We can lay to rest all that has hurt and plagued us. We can recognize that which we need to purge and that which we need to nurture for a new season. It is during the autumns of our lives when we can best see the hand of God and hear His voice whispering in the wind through the drying leaves ... "the old things have passed away ..."

911

I saw my first fallen leaves of the season today. Yellow, young in their independence, dancing in the road. I can't believe it's September again. Tomorrow is the 11th. It's been 8 years since the Tuesday that I woke up mid morning to a gorgeous blue sky, 9 voice mail messages, and a different America. By the time I woke up that morning, everything was already over.

That day was terrible. I was glued to the television; Patrick had to vacuum because he felt he had to do something. We were far from the fray, but it had happened to all of us.

I remember.

There are many in the world who live in terror every single day.

I realize.

Tomorrow, I will thank God for my country. I will thank Him that I live in a country where a statesman can yell at the president and not be killed. I will thank Him for the men and women and their families who have sacrificed their lives for my freedom. I will pray for those men and women who still sacrifice in their suffering remembrance for what they have done to provide it for me.

I will pray for the men and women we lost eight years ago in the towers, at the Pentagon, in those planes. I will pray for their families who still love them so. I will thank God for all of the ways He has cared for the least of these, the ones all over the world ... the sick, the dying, the distended bellies, the discarded, the disenfranchised, the mutilated ... and beg Him to save us.

Lord, have mercy.

From the Front Lines: Kindergarten Update #2

Quick post tonight, as I am trying very hard to adjust to the new morning routine of a family with school children and must to get to bed soon. Dark thirty comes awful early.

Anna started school on Tuesday. She rode the bus her first day, and true to form, she did not look back once when she got on. The fingers of her future gripped my heart as the bus pulled away. I got the distinct sense that, if I blinked, I would open my eyes to see her driving off in her honeymoon limo. Gratefully, time is suspended and I haven't opened my eyes yet.

Noah was a bit lost without his sister that morning, and so was I. He offered twice to go pick her up before school was even out. We baked cookies to pass the time. And watched Spongebob. Because I'm just that kinda mom.

The next day, on Wednesday, tornadoes hit our area right before 3:00, and my poor girl had to endure a tornado drill on her second day of school! All of the kids were fine, but the report from the front lines came back that, after a few minutes, she refused to stay in the turtle position. I guess she figured that, if it hadn't gotten her by then, it wasn't going to! No, there's no use in conjecture. That's just who she is. I love her for it.

Finally, she tells me that school is a lot of fun, and she really likes going every day. There is a "cute boy" named Matthew who seems to come up in quite a few conversations now. She also "made an alliance" with Benjamin and Olivia (pretty sure I didn't know what an alliance was in kindergarten) but this alliance has apparently been abandoned because they all decided to "just be friends." I am sore afraid.

I have a feeling that Anna will give me enough material to keep all seven of you entertained for the next 8 months! Probably for the next 13 years.

It can only get better from here

So we got Anna registered for school last week ... it was "the worst day of her life."

I know this because she declared it when she arrived at her new school, her father and brother in tow, to meet me for registration. I was filling out forms in the school office, and she plopped down in the chair in front of me and declared for the room's benefit: "This is the WORST day of my LIFE."

"Why is this the worst day of your life?" I asked, wholly amused.

"Because you are making me go to SCHOOL."

"But you are going to love school!" her dad says, in a tone that betrays the hint that he has told her this more than once already.

"Well, honey," I said, "the great news is that, if today is the worst day of your life, then it's all downhill from here. It's never going to be this bad again, and every day from now on will be better than this!"

She glowered at me. "I do NOT see it that way!" she declared. And I shared a peripheral smile with the school secretary.

Anna starts kindergarten on Tuesday. I simply can't believe my little girl will be going to school all day every day. We have visited her classroom, met her teacher, met a few classmates, and gathered all the school supplies. Today she and I are going shopping to pick out her "first day of school" outfit. I think she may be a little stressed about the changes; I think her mother is going to lose it when she drops her off at school for the first time.

My baby is growing up so fast! She is so beautiful, so intelligent, so funny, so dramatic, so vulnerable, so sweet, so crafty, so sassy, so wonderful ... I have no doubt that she is only going to be more and more fun as the years go on. But I have to admit that I will always miss this time, when she was little.

I tell her this every once in awhile, like when I smile at her and say, "Why do you keep growing up? Why won't you stay little forever?" She inevitably rolls her eyes and says the same thing every time: "I can't help it, Mom, but I'll always be your daughter."

Never say goodbye

One of the great lights of my life is Chris.

Chris is my dad's cousin. She is a beautiful fun woman with a head of thick dark hair and rich full laugh. Heavens, what a laugh she has! Her smile and laughter fill every corner of a room. If something tickles her, she just rears back her head and roars, and everyone makes her laugh. She enjoys life and her life is infectious.

When I was a little girl, I remember spending the night with her at her house. She would take me shopping and out to eat, then we would come home and listen to Barry Manilow records. My love for Barry Manilow probably has more to do with Chris than with Barry. Listening to his music was as much about being connected to her as it was enjoying his songs. Before going to bed at night, Chris would ask me what record I wanted to listen to and what side. I would chose very carefully (did I want to hear the live version of "Copacabana" over and over, or was I more interested in the studio recording of "One Voice?"). She would put the vinyl down on the turntable, set the volume low, and soon she would be asleep. I would lay awake, watching the arm reset itself to the beginning of the record over and over, never tiring of hearing the same five songs in succession while Chris snored softly beside me. I was safe and felt loved.

I remember the last time I spent the night at her house when I was seven. She picked me up, her head covered in a scarf tied behind her head, instead of her usual crown of thick dark hair. I noticed but never asked why. We went to eat, then went to her house. She put a copy of The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas in her BETA player and I silently had an anxiety attack. Omygoodness, this movie has the word "whore" in the title and it has a big red R rating on the front of the box. I protested meekly, telling her that I am not allowed to watch rated R movies. She brushed it off. "Oh, it's not bad. Your dad won't know. It has good music," she said. Oh, the anxiety that rolled through my stomach while that movie was on! I was convinced that, somehow, my father knew - he knew what I was doing! I was watching a rated R movie! - and I could not enjoy it. To this day I cannot remember the plot, the music, or anything besides Dolly Parton's boobs and Burt Reynold's hat, and I've never been able to bring myself to watch it since. I just kept waiting until we went to bed, so that I could listen to Barry Manilow and fall asleep next to Chris.

At bedtime, I climbed into Chris's bed while she got ready in the bathroom. When she came out, the scarf was gone. So was her hair. I couldn't help but stare. She simply smiled and said nothing. I didn't ask. The other thing that was different that night was that Chris didn't ask me what record I wanted to listen to. She didn't put one on, she just turned out the light. I don't know why I didn't ask her if we could put one on except that I was an incredibly meek child and could not reconcile what had happened to her head. The silence kept me awake that night.

The next morning, Chris took me to my grandmother's (her aunt's) house. We went inside, then Chris went to her car. When she came back in the house, her arms were carrying a huge stack of records and four songbooks. All of her Barry Manilow records! Four big books full of Barry Manilow songs lyrics! I couldn't believe it! She was giving them all to me! I was so excited and declared for Chris and Grandma that "Daybreak" was my very favorite song. I immediately began to read the songbooks from cover to cover, not paying any attention to any conversation the women may have been having right beside me.

Not long after, Grandma picked me up from home and said, "We're going to go visit Chris," I was so excited. Chris was my favorite. We didn't go to her house, though. We went to Memorial Medical Center. That anxiety was back, sitting in my stomach like realization, and I remembered Chris's head. I held Grandma's hand as she walked me into the hospital room where Chris was staying. I have absolutely no further recollection of my visit with Chris in the hospital.

One day, my dad picked me up from school. He waited until we were in the car before he quietly said, "Honey, I have something to tell you. Chris died today."

At this moment, I feel like I am back in the front seat of that Chevy Impala wagon, my father next to me, my Chris gone forever. He answered all of my questions as we drove home to my new life without her. Chris had breast cancer, he explained. What is cancer? Cancer is a disease of bad body cells that attack good body cells. Her body fought the cancer as hard as it could, but the cancer had gotten too strong. Her body was too weak from growing the baby within her and fighting the cancer for so long. Is the baby still alive? No, the baby was too little. The baby died too.

I never even knew she was going to have a baby.

____

I tell you that to tell you this: if I could have my ideal life, the ONLY thing I would change is that all of my loved ones, past and present, would still be right here with me. No one would ever leave, no one would ever die, and no love discovered would ever go away.

Now, the true art of life is in the acceptance of it. I believe this is true from two perspectives. The first is a vertical perspective. Life, as it is, can either be accepted or changed. If it is not accepted, it must be changed. If it cannot be changed, then it must be accepted. I cannot control uncontrollable cancer. I cannot control other people's choices. I cannot control the passage of time, the realization of truth, the inevitably directions we must all go in to grow. Some of us are blessed to walk together; some roads converge only to reach an inevitable fork where we wish the other well and go on. I accept this wholeheartedly now, but it is not without a touch of grief. I love the people I love, and I want them in my life always. It just is what it is. It's who I am.

In the midst of this acceptance, I acknowledge the grace and strength of this love that spurs me on to change what I can. I learn from mistakes, I embrace my memories, and I never let go of the love that I have. I have changed the way I grieve broken relationships. Now I rejoice for the connections, I recognize how each loved one has positively impacted my life, and I praise God for the chance to love at all. I take Chris with me wherever I go, as I do all of my loved ones. It is as if, in many ways, she is still here. All of that love is still here. That is the definition of a legacy.

The other perspective of the art of life is the horizontal one. Broken relationships serve to remind me, over and over, that this world is fallen and broken. Life will never be without pain; suffering is the singular experience that every human being throughout history has shared. It would take a miracle of seismic historic proportion to ever overcome it.

Thank God for the gospel! Thank Him that this miracle is alive. Christ has conquered death by death and by His resurrection, has restored life to all of us! We need only to accept this for our life to have HOPE, for the purpose of existence to become CLEAR, and for LOVE to be whole and real and life-giving and life-changing.

For I know that all that has been broken in this life will be made right. I know that this power is already at work, redeeming my own self and my short and limited interaction with life, and I do not have to wait for heaven to see His love at work on earth. I accept that this is what Life really is: to love God and cherish others, forever. So I give myself humbly, fully acknowledging how small and imperfect I am, as an agent of this Life-giving love.

And I find, as I consider these things, that I already have the life I have always wanted.

Suddenly, religion and politics are the only things safe for me to talk about.

I just got back here, and I'm already stuck.

Friends, it's not that I don't have anything to talk or write about. Heaven knows (and my sister knows) that I have way too much to talk about and an unfortunate lack of awareness about when to shut up. Still, when I sit down to pound out a couple of thoughts on Le Blog, I keep coming out with things in the Very Bad To Blog About In Front Of The Whole World category. These things include, but are not limited to, the following:

The divorce. 'Nuff said.

The economy, or rather, MY economy.

Drama in my apartment complex. Seriously, we make Melrose Place look like an after school special.

Past flames. Oy vey.

Parenting snafus or mishaps. Because I am perfect, or rather, because I am smart enough not to document my own mistakes.

The Cubs.

So, Faithful Few, this is where you come in! I need YOUR ideas about what to write about! I did this once before, way back in the day, and it was fun. Just leave a comment with a suggestion or two about what you'd like to see here in the days ahead, and I will do my level best to deliver something palatable. I only request that you keep it clean. For the kids.

This is gonna be fun.

Stretching My Fingers

A quick note about my day, to stretch my fingers and satisfy my inclination to get back into my blog:

Today I finished reading Drums, Girls, and Dangerous Pie by Jordan Sonnenblick. It is a funny and heartwrenching book about an eighth grade boy whose little brother gets leukemia. I loved it.

Despite how hard I stared at it, the carpet cleaner simply would not run without an operator. So I plugged it in and cleaned my downstairs carpet. Now all the stains are lifted and my room smells and feels fresh and new.

My next door neighbors are having a baby! It is wonderful news.

I was introduced to the poems of Pablo Neruda tonight. He is deliciously angsty and, of course, I love it.

I have no idea what I'm going to do with my kids this weekend.

My life is about to turn upside down as I start masters courses in six days.

I have decided that I need to start watching Mad Men.

I have come to the conclusion that the most difficult person to forgive is myself.

My current favorite snack is veggies and hummus.

This has probably been the best summer of my life.

I am really excited to write again. Self publishing was invented for people like me. :)

Psst ... are you still here?

Dear and faithful readers, how I have missed you. I had to bow out of the blogosphere for awhile, but I was inspired by an old friend to return. In celebration, I have rearranged things here a little. It's nice to be back!