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
Monday, November 30, 2009
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
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 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.
Monday, November 16, 2009
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.
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.
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
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.
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.
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