Your Crying is Safe With Me

There is so much shame in sadness.

I was told by an unhealthy friend this past month that I have no reason to ever feel depressed. I’m married to a guy whose enneagram motto is “I want to have fun.” I have young children watching me, gauging my emotions, desiring my attention and steadiness and happiness. And then there are the comparisons. I see the people seemingly perfect. And I shrink in the shadow of the real struggles my other loved ones face. Potential loss of a spouse. Incarceration. Refusing to be served by a restaurant because of their race or language. Fear of deportation. Cancer. Struggles of poverty and addiction.

It’s easy to try and muscle through (unsuccessfully) sadness and grief when it seems so petty or unmerited, situational, and privileged. When it seems so un-Christian, and unwelcome, and inappropriate. History would show me that I don’t have many good solutions for moving on when I start by denying the truthfulness of my experience. Nevertheless, the cognitive gymnastics continue.

Today the devotional guide I’m using for Lent asked me what am I sad about. We also read John 16:16-24, in which Jesus is preparing his followers for suffering and deep sadness.

Both of these things, in and of themselves, whisper to me that my sadness is okay. In this personal time of donning Christ’s suffering and offering repentance, restarting spiritual rhythms, and opening to the holy, my sadness is okay. These things suggest that my sadness’ companion, shame, is not from God, and that the two must be divorced.

Truly, truly, I say to you, you will weep and lament, but the world will rejoice (v 20a, ESV).

Then fix this firmly in your minds: You’re going to be in deep mourning while the godless world throws a party. You’ll be sad, very sad, but your sadness will develop into gladness (v 20, MSG). 

Jesus does not ask his followers to not be sad. He tells them they will see Him again. And in the meantime, be incredibly bold and blunt with their requests to God. It sounds like sadness is not incongruous with faith. It sounds like even though they know that God is God and that things will overall, ultimately, in that transcendent way be okay, there’s space for lament. For mourning, and missing Jesus (“What does he mean by a  little while??”). For sadness and depression. And that out of that pain, they may be brazenly full of requests, pounding on God’s door, until they’ll “…no longer be so full of questions.

Whew, that sounds good. ‘Cause I’m bringing a stack of questions and a well of tears this Lenten season–tears for me, and tears for you. And tonight, I’m feeling less bad about it. Sadness is a part of this preparation for the cross, and the tomb. Sadness is a part of living as foreigners in this land. Sadness is appropriate.

Lent welcomes our sadness and questions the shame. Calvary promises one, and denies the other. Hosanna.

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Nostalgia – Lent Day 1, Week 1

<< With gratefulness, I’m using my college friend’s devotional guide this Lenten season that brings in the scripture readings, reflections, parts of Chance the Rapper’s Coloring Book record, and actual coloring pages designed by different artists. >>

The theme for the first week is Nostalgia. Like Garret, I have a strong internal voice from yesteryear, that influences much too much of how I evaluate Today. This unwelcome companion to my adulthood wants to define success for a life it knows nothing of and a life that yearns for godly success on its own terms. My old voice competes with the answer to “What is God’s invitation to me now, here?” and I feel, and know, and see that this voice contributes to my ongoing battles with discontent and depression.

I echo this part of the guide’s reflection: “…help me navigate the passion of my past with the wisdom of my present.”

I am filled with questions. What does spiritual formation look like now–what has it looked like for wives and moms of young kids, unpracticed in self-care, uncomfortable with traditional gender roles, and unfurled in this age of pseudo-connection and polarized faith? What space does passion inhabit when I am engrossed in other people’s needs almost every waking moment? What does the suffering and lament of Christ this season invite me to, as I both set aside temporal longings and find fulfillment and footing in the ancient, sacred rhythms?

img_5067The passages for today are 1 Kings 19:9-14, and Ps. 103:8-14. We were directed to listen and focus on particular verses in the song.

To me, verse 10 sang freedom. He does not deal with us according to our sins, nor repay us according to our iniquities. He does not maintain and enforce the old yardstick by which I measured my self; that was not His idea anyway.

Verse 8 also fought hard against the voice. The Lord is merciful and gracious, slow to anger and abounding in steadfast love. He does not hold me to a standard of motherhood and womanhood I cannot keep. He did not author the rubric I use to berate myself. His judgment is loving. His approach is calm.

In case you too are working hard to claim the Good News of liberation from past plans that have become judgments, I share this. Life is brutal; our God, our Savior, is not. His suffering is purposeful, foretold, redemptive. At times, I suffer as a part of His call. But other times, I suffer because of something empty, expired, and exhausting–a noise so consistent, so established, it’s been excused and accommodated though it no longer fits or rings true. As I step into more reflection this week, I am aware of the perils of this nostalgia soundtrack and my need for a Savior’s voice.

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Weeds, Anxiety and Home

I need me some home.” -Johnnyswim

There are days that by 6pm, starting a load of laundry seems far too hard.

When the thought of next week, tomorrow, next year, carries too much work to bring that rush of Looking-Forward-To-life I think it will.

This infancy, this 3rd one from my own hormones and womb, has left me fighting demons of anxiety. Most common when I am quite literally feeding this little doughboy does the sense of alarm and despair threaten emptiness. It has improved over time, and has become less surprising, but still, Tired is nearer, No More is always within arm’s reach…and in the crevices of a cheerful, cuddly live teddy bear’s light and joy, there’s the bone tired drought and knots that appear from no where.

This afternoon, I battled a weed as big as me. It comes back every couple of months and I glare at it and I put in a request for a chainsaw (yes, this weed has a trunk) and a male’s upper arm strength and I wring my hands and maybe yell a few times. I let it take over the planter, filling my vision of the patio. And it can feel overwhelming.

Today I cut off all the parts of the weed and its spawn that I could. I made a heap of something that used to be feeding, growing, and absorbing energy, and will now shrivel and die. I didn’t solve anything but I don’t feel defeated when I look outside for the moment. Now it’s not the only thing I see when I look out the window.

In my refined, oldest child, perfectionist, Good-Christian, missionary kid/adult mentality, it’s really easy to think that going without is a virtue in and of itself–that somehow faith and being good and blessed has landed me in a stressful, tired place and that’s the way it is meant to be. That the weed is a thing of glory or a test or some crap theology like that and I just have to figure out how to BE HAPPY, doggonit.

And then I listen to a song. Then I spend 10 minutes of quiet with Galatians. Then I plant something or encounter a safe friend on the street or am spontaneously embraced or helped by one of my sons. And I remember Home.

Not a home I can find on a map, like many third-culture-kids and millennials nowadays. Not just my family of origin that shared so much with me. Not just a feeling of humanness and connectedness, or freedom and contentment that worldly beauty and comfort can aid. The Home that beckons us forward, that makes us bow our head in thanks. That disentangles our mind and our heart–our death grip–out and off of the lies of anxiety and shoulds and going without for no reason at all.

The Good News that’s kept my attention in the darkest does not proclaim that God wants me to carry a strained look around all the livelong day. He doesn’t send us things like illness, MediCal sagas, computer glitches that freeze our savings, and random phone calls asking if we can take a child (“We hope we can help soon…”) the very day we’re worried that that dream is dying. Yes, He’s grieved by asinine global and national developments and He is deeply involved in the loss and otherness and margins that invoke pain. But He isn’t behind every closed door and every upsetting curve ball. He isn’t preaching the Gospel of Muscle Through and The End.

My Courier of Good News is not the grim reaper of deprivation.

He’s the Home. Christ before me, Christ behind me. Christ beside me, Christ beneath me. Christ above me, Christ within me. The constant. The meaning, the refuge. Home.

Today, once again, I did nothing to actually end the battle with the nightmare weed, but I made it seem less big. So now I can focus on the plants I do want to grow–the choosing, the watering, the tending, out from under the lying shade of a bully weed. Today, I still do not have control over when and for how long I will experience anxiety and my chest muscles contracting and all the other blasted adulting that makes laundry too hard by 6pm. But I can rebel by doing the small things that help me be centered. I can partake in the things that whisper of Home—of being home-free, abundant, graceful and calm. I can avail my self to that which spites the weeds of this life, stripping them until they are only one part of the picture. I can lay claim to Home.

 

An Untethered Courage

Courage, courage
Is what the Life and Deaths
Of Faith
Require.

There have been times in life that make us feel courageous, that we are courageous people, perhaps by the grace of God but also perhaps by our own virtue.

These are rarely the times of true courage.

It seems that true courage, or the next courage, feels crappy. It is not when the mission is utterly clear, when the sacrifices are distinct, and the rewards are quick to the tongue. Sure we were exhausted, sure those were good callings and brave steps, but we were comforted by many assurances that this new courage may leave behind. I suspect that true courage is found in its purest form in the ambiguity, in the dry mouth of shock and the straining eyes of “what is next?”

In and around me, I see the battle cries. The ones dismissing people from faith, from understanding Scripture, from their circle of trust, because it’s all too foreign. The ones setting a church over another, handing out excommunication slips with the slip of the tongue, freely and full of pity. The ones buckled to a certain position on a temporal issue, that is of course higher in the heavenly rungs of Babel than the next. I hear the scraping of lines being drawn, in the sand, on the cement, in people’s flesh and blood, raw with passion, rightness and self-aggrandizement. And blood, blood, is everywhere. Under a shoddy understanding of courage and conviction, we enclose ourselves in echo chambers that murder any shred of a will we had to understand and be curious about the Other. And I can’t find eternity and I don’t know a Divine voice.

I have been in the debates. I have defended my view, easily attacked the opposing side, dismissed a fellow Christian, felt full of my own rightness and bravery, thought my choices were all probably going to trump theirs whenever the scoring took place. I care very much about many of the “issues” at hand and many of the rights and wrongs worrying the Church today. But I have lost the courage I knew before—the courage that emboldened me to argue much, for long, in the face of the echo chambers. I have gone through enough (dare I hope?) disappointment the past two years to have to face a different type of courage I must learn. For me, it is one that requires more faith, more silence, and less stability.

This courage is less rewarding. It is a grueling morning of dragging one’s body awake, into the naked air, squinting at the abrasive, unrelenting Light, and slowly, resigned and resolute, adding “well” to the “it is” of the night before.

This is the new, next courage.

A courage that is craved and imitated poorly.

From the looks of it, this courage is less likely to call a person an enemy and less likely to be productive in the ways I’ve practiced. It seems that this courage is going to ask me more about Forgiveness and less about Rightness. It may mean the death of some discussions and the start of better ones. It’s going to scoot my actions and activism to the side, not to expire them but to bleed out the toxins of loyalty to any one culture above one Kingdom.

And in this new courage, I recognize that old friend grace—that soulful desire for embrace and being embraced continues, a metaphor Miroslav Volf explains by “the will to give ourselves to others and ‘welcome’ them, to readjust our identities to make space for them, prior to any judgment about others except that of identifying them in their humanity.” And speaking of identity, this courage does not rest in any resumé entries, from schooling to fostering to missionarying to mothering to developing. It just is. Alone. Without promises, untethered by the things to which I like to tether.

Perhaps you too are deflated from the night, from the pile of “it is”-s of the past. All of those debates and deaths and doings that have left us undone. And daylight is awakening a profound discontentment. If this courage makes sense in your new year too, if the morning is also brash and there are a lot of untethering things, not least of all your self, that you’re wanting the Divine to make well, let’s ask together, What is courageous in this place? What deaths and no’s or new-life yesses does a new-courage faith ask?”

“Yes, and I will rejoice, for I know that through your prayers and the help of the Spirit of Jesus Christ this will turn out for my deliverance, as it is my eager expectation and hope that I will not be at all ashamed, but that with full courage now as always Christ be honored in my body, whether by life or by death.” Philippians 1:18b-20

Quote from Volf, Exclusion and Embrace, p. 29.

My Bout with Rest

Last night I achieved a good 9 hours of sleep.

(Some of us like to achieve even when we are unconscious.)

I expected to wake up refreshed and renewed, recovered from the past weeks of sleep-drought and ready for the future weeks of unrest and activity. It didn’t work that way. I drug myself out of bed, wishing I could sleep a few more hours, disappointed I hadn’t magically risen an hour earlier filled with vigor and a youthful glow.

Last night was my bout with rest and it didn’t work.

It’s been one of those SEASONS (our favorite ambiguous word…) of living from behind. I can’t seem to manage to get one step ahead of the mail, the appointments, the work, the dust, and the offspring. When the pharmacy takes three calls and two visits before one prescription is filled correctly, it seems like the formula has gotten seriously screwed up.

I wanted 9 hours of sleep to solve all my problems. But it’s too late for that. That too is a screwy formula.

I keep slamming up against this misled path of thinking that tells me “I can rest when I’m on vacation” or “I’ll get a break on my birthday” or even, essentially, “I don’t need/deserve rest.” I am an A+ student when it comes to overachieving, overhelping, and overdrive. The myth “word hard to play hard” is fully actualized in me–I am its favorite student–and as time goes on, I’m recognizing more and more its falsehood.

There was a time when grades, scholarships, and approval were the replacements for play; I worked hard and these things fell into place in ways that perpetuated the lie of never-quite-done-for-the-day. That time has long past. Housework, child-rearing, grant-writing, and community involvement are never done and rarely rewarding. I mean, existentially, there is purpose and meaning, but in the work-hard, play-hard sense of things, the fallacy emerges and my false-self rears its ugly head quite swiftly. I get grumpy generous and doubly distracted. I get my feelings hurt faster, and I want to escape the responsibility I’ve showered down.

When I am centered, I know, in the truthful core that gives us life, in that place that awakens to a moving song, a crying newborn, a beautiful story–I know that the rest preceded the work in Genesis 1-2. That play is not a product of effort, except for the stopping. I know that I’ve bitten too hard on the bait of an American ideology that isn’t biblical nor is it leading me to glory and peace. That the lie isn’t just for workaholics with briefcases and BMWs. It is for us women, who rarely tout such things, but still carry this burden for doing, and overdoing, and achievement and lists. I’ve seen the mess that is created when work is all consuming in one way or another, and then, in one blast of extravagant spending and quality time, Savior Vacation is expected to fill our family life, our playful urges, our sense of wellness and beauty.

My bout with rest was a lousy attempt at a mini-Savior Vacation and of course it did not deliver.

Return to the origins, the Original…to the long-told stories of true identity and order when everything else is unstable and lying and the day is too much with you. 

from Genesis 1 & 2 “Then God said, ‘Let us make humankind in our image, after our likeness. And let them have dominion over the fish of the sea and over the birds of the heavens and over the livestock and over all the earth and over every creeping thing that creeps on the earth.’

 So God created them in his own image, in the image of God he created him; male and female he created them.

And God blessed them. And God said to them, ‘Be fruitful and multiply and fill the earth and subdue it…Behold, I have given you every plant yielding seed that is on the face of all the earth, and every tree with seed in its fruit. You shall have them for food…’ And it was so. And God saw everything that he had made, and behold, it was very good. And there was evening and there was morning, the sixth day.

Thus the heavens and the earth were finished, and all the host of them. And on the seventh day God finished his work that he had done, and he rested on the seventh day from all his work that he had done. So God blessed the seventh day and made it holy, because on it God rested from all his work that he had done in creation.”

Rest is given, along with food and beauty and order, to humankind right away. I do not earn rest. Rest is basic to being here and being fully human. It was granted the 7th day, or the 1st day of human existence.  However you read Genesis 1 and 2, the progress of the story insists that rest happened to begin with–that Day 1, as far as we are concerned, there was Sabbath and grace and a divine togetherness.

In this way, I have a lot of growing to do to become more about a Kingdom of love and grace than a kingdom of toil, achievement and competition–the glass menagerie of America. It’s going to take a lot more than 9 hours to redeem the formulas I’ve mis-learned and that are situated deeply in my autopilot. My bout with rest is not over, and, in many ways, it’s time for Day 1.

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Just Yesterday

One of my sons has a very fluid concept of time, which must be very resilient in order to survive life with me. While I’m like “Did you say 4:12pm or 4:15pm?” BECAUSE IT MAKES A DIFFERENCE, he is under the impression that all things that have happened are in the category of “Yesterday” and all things that will happen are in “Tomorrow.” So even if this morning we went to the doctor, based on his emotional departure from that event, it was probably yesterday. And if he is seeing a picture of himself getting his first bath, that too was yesterday. So basically, it’s like he is from another planet.

This incorrect vernacular is a lot like grief.

Sometimes the yesterdays seem so far away like memories indistinguishable from photographs, and other mornings we wake up with our heels feeling the toes of what has been. The past can suddenly smash right up against the present like there was a wrinkle in time and it is tiring and it is real. I can be transported to the year one of my siblings began medicine indefinitely as I’m giving my own child his new indefinite dose and I am a wreck of compulsive web searching and ineffective self-soothing tactics. I can look at an empty eggshell blue dresser or a birth or adoption announcement and well up with tears a minute after thinking “I’m really at peace with our family right now.” Welcome to crazy town.

As our new realities have settled in the last four months since things were officially hopeless at clearing our name and things officially different with employment and schedule and things were officially undetermined with Asher’s seizures and prognosis, it is hard to not get swept up in the urgent, mindless chaos of it all. It’s hard to not give in and get numb and dodge all the feelings and disappointment and questions. It is hard to not get shifty-eyed around the yesterdays that haunt us.

More than ever I have been aware of the ways I distract myself from sitting and listening to the Lord. Meanwhile He has seen it fitting to give me many examples of people who do rest at His footstool and who don’t, and how those people are different–how what they are doing is different and how who they have become is different. I guess I am in a state of motivated reluctancy when it comes to mindfully subjecting myself to His presence (detect the rub?). Because the floors are dirty and an hour of work would be so productive right now and writing cannot happen any other time and coffee, no a nap, even a show, would be restful and help me face the rest of the day. While all these things are good, they fall short. They can all be grace, certainly. But when I engage them to delay the reality of my relationship with God, however awkward it feels at that moment, they are misplaced.  And they don’t help with the grief at the end of the day and at the beginning of those days in which the past is giving the present flat tires.

When I do slow and sit, I find myself praying for courage to do so and to face Today, let alone Tomorrow. And I find myself crying. And also comforted. The last four months we have found ourselves in touch with a new level of our humanity and who better to comment on that than Creator, Sustainer, Triune God. They who help us distinguish between the false and true self.

There are so many effective ways to deny the Lord the mic. Tasks for Him, conferences, good spiritual books, deep conversation, Bible studies, heady writing, new nifty ways to organize Bible reading and prayer, list making, poetic journaling, even sermon podcasts and worship music. I’m seeing in my own life that never were these things stand-ins or stand-alones, and in our society in which time is of the essence, maybe I should be much more reluctant to engage these options if my own attentiveness to the Word and the Voice of Truth have not led me there in the first place.

Because probably too often I have participated in these things when my soul needed Him and my culture readily offered these as substitutes.

No one’s interested in legalistic ultimatums. I can’t even follow a meal plan. But today, I’m admitting and offering this: our grace-initiating God wants to lovingly handle both our yesterdays and our todays and I know I’ve been in danger of avoiding Him with both in the best possible ways. I’ve missed out on opportunities to have His company in my grief and face my humanity with the One who loves humans the most. This has made the todays too unpredictable, the yesterdays too unwieldy. And time keeps marching on.

Let’s put aside the highlighters. Take out our earbuds. Close the hardback books and wait to commit to that new great thing. Let’s sit and allow Him to quiet us. Hear our breathing, let down our shoulders. Let’s read the ancient text and withhold our own comments. Hold out our yesterdays and see Him today.

Behold, I am doing a new thing; now it springs forth, do you not perceive it? 

I will make a way in the wilderness and rivers in the desert. 

Is. 43:19

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Review

I am working on my annual review and what an annual it has been.

 

Even as I know the shadows and still feel their touch, their implications, I feel the breeze. I read the scrawl of the past year and find green, buds, sprouts that will get us to tomorrow. To springtime.

 

Help me fix my eyes not on the remainder of things looming but the finished grace you give over and over. Truth over fear. Be our glory. Be our treasure. 

Not one is missing. To him who has no might, He increases strength. (Is. 40:26, 29)

He covers the over-done like a weighted blanket, while His angels bear you up. Set your love on Him and find your terror in night, your daytime arrows, absorbed. Gone. (Ps. 91)

When we have been brought to a place we never wanted to go, the Lord enjoys our attention as never before. (adapted from Acedia, Norris)

Keep at it. He is a sure thing. Perfect peace is there for the stubborn. Our cumulative longing bears shalom–wholeness, safety and welfare. (Is. 26:3-4)

 

“But I am like a green olive tree in the house of God.

I trust in the steadfast love of God forever and ever.

I will thank you forever because you have done it.

I will wait for your name, for it is good, in the presence of the godly.”

Ps. 52:8-9

 

Wait. Be silent and thankful in the presence of good company. His grace is finished and new.

Cliff-diving

I had the beautiful opportunity to attend Storyline Friday and Saturday and it was like running into an old friend while cliff-diving. 

I took 19 pages of notes and yet they give you the storyline materials. (I will spare you a summarizing essay.) I have no idea how to translate the binder or my scrawl to my husband, my community…oh, and then, my life… but it’s there, in ink, asking and inviting. At times I felt like my heart was overflowing; at other times, I thought I was going to have a heart attack. Yes, cliff-diving with an old friend.

I will (can) say this: I am empowered to renew the fight for the heart. One of the main concepts of Storyline is that our stories are being hijacked and if we don’t plan them out and write (live) them with all the shared agency God gives us, something else will. Something else has. It was so refreshing to sit under a dozen different speakers of all ages in a room of 1700 people who did not grimace when people referred to the heart, emotions, or gut. The material is intelligent. The steps are rational. And the substance is about reclaiming the matters of the heart as legitimate, compelling, and directive. 

I don’t know about you but I have been injured by the ways that modern theology, faith, and church have shrunk the heart and the emotions to unreliable interferences in the path to holiness. To wholeness. It’s like, invite Jesus into your heart and then never talk about that blasted pitfall again! How bizarre to sequester God-given parts of us to isolation in the pursuit of healing. I would guess that I wouldn’t consider my leg to have healed if it was amputated. Yet I have this learned internal dissonance when I say things that begin with “I feel…” (and actually follow it with an emotion or hunch rather than a fact) or when I hear someone say “follow your heart” (you know, like on Disney movies). 

We are recovering captives. We may mentally agree with the Gospel and know all the right answers but we tend to live barely outside the circle we lived in before we knew Jesus. We have been given freedom to love and forgive and feel and explore. He heals and calls the minds and the hearts. And heart-statements and freedom-statements shouldn’t have to shroud themselves in layers of disclaimers. Emotions shouldn’t have to be termed unreliable more than the next guy’s “rationale.” 

So this recovering captive is moving forward. I am trying to slough off some of the apology I attach to my outspoken heart. I am going to try to make braver decisions. I am raising an antennae in hopes of picking up ways that the heart is shut down in conversations. I am re-opening to dream language that I thought was a shameful sign of youth or belonging to my generation but might actually be an indicator of New Life. 

Beauty and Ashes and Forward

There is so much of me that craves beauty.

It is almost a tangible deficiency somedays, when my smile is lagging, when my breaths are pulled taut, when my attention is scattered like my son’s die cast cars across the carpet. The endless ocean of die cast cars…

I cannot even begin to name that hunger when physical hunger often is missed while I am running between diapers, doctors, and dirty clothes. Without real effort, I cannot even begin to identify that what I really want is to see the Beauty Between. In all the crevices of Normal and Sub-par. The super in the natural. That is what I really need. But my senses get dull so easily.

And then I watch a short video about unexpected love and a pulling, exhausting attachment. Or I hear a song that reminds me of Pretty and of the sunshines I keep company with. I witness my oldest speaking to my youngest in a compassionate and tender tone, moments after I consider a day-long time-out. Or I suddenly miss a beautiful friend who passed away two short, long weeks ago. I think about her and the beauty of her generosity, her sassy style, her beautifully-crafted story of resilience and healing.

And these things strike a chord, a reverberating deep chord of the Sacred. Of the Beauty I miss, not because it is not around me but because I am slow and too fast and I think I need to be in the woods to have it. To participate.

It has been a relief-less run lately. Asher’s 6th febrile seizure and his terrible rendition of the flu took me off guard. I couldn’t stop crying one night when his diaper and the day’s events took me back to Guatemala and a particularly desperate time of not knowing what to do about his health. I stared at the Maytag downstairs, telling myself he was okay, it was okay, and I tried to focus on the amazing thing of a washing machine and an extra sheet and ER this time around. Ryan and I are having tough discussions in an effort of discernment and dreams are scary to name and disappointments hurt and distractions demand. We have been thrown into a “child welfare” system and a process and scenario no amount of classes could foreshadow and we are helpless. It is all waiting and responsibility and confusion. Losing Lily has left a hole, even for me on the peripheral. I expect her to drop by and then my heart drops. And her children, no matter how many – and there are many – loving aunties and motherly neighbors they have, have lost their mom. Their motivator, their fan, their hero. And other children will talk and complain about their moms and be sent to school with Valentine’s Day doo-dads from their moms and will not have had to find the perfect size 6 girls dress for their mom’s memorial service. We can mother them but we cannot be their mother. His wife. Their rock.

Beauty, bullets to my ignored heart from the unexpected sources, in the midst of this cloud of welling and numbing, hits me hard and sudden. Fleeting, but reminding me of True and Noble and Praiseworthy and Excellent. And I am crying not because of fear, or even of grief, but just craving. Of recognition and longing.

The pilgriming is hard, isn’t it?

In these days, beauty reminds me that the promise is still coming. That nothing is wasted. That something in me is still alive and creative and wanting more is part of the journey forward. That now is all we have and nothing I am cleaning or fretting over is for keeps.

In these days, with disguised beauty and bulleted beauty and coming beauty, I am trying to remember to stop. To look. I am trying to believe that the heaviest things are not the truest things necessarily. That crying over a Chinese commercial isn’t just crying over a Chinese commercial. That pausing to peer at a die cast car with a four-year-old is worthwhile. That beauty knocks and sneaks in and beauty is even within this fidgeting, weary frame. Because this frame is part of Creation and humanity and there is good and beauty because He makes it so.

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Small Bodies

A few weeks ago, I prayed with vivid feelings and memories fresh on my heart. It was a couple days after two loving parents had disagreed with weary bones and Spanish-filled minds over what needed to be done if Asher became worse. After weeks of diarrhea and antibiotics. After a night’s rest beside my youngest that began with tears. With Guatemalan daylight easing the upset of our disagreement and offering a new day with hope of better health for my son, I thought back to a hot afternoon of carrying children, walking a long way, through a foreign city. We had not known how to get home from church using the microbuses. I thought that by walking in the right direction we would be able to ask a bus and catch a ride eventually. Eventually never came and we just kept walking. Backs sore, arms wrinkled from the weight of our children, we arrived back home a long time later. Dusted with fumes, rosy with sun, disgruntled with the situation. The kids just had to hold on though and they were fine. When we finally arrived back, they were happy to be back “home,” and soon took peaceful naps. The walk had not been very impressive to them.

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I remembered that walk, and others similar to it when small bodies relied on big, as I tried to express our needs to our Father after acute points of concern for Asher. I found  us, the feeble caretakers, in the arms of the Caretaker, and was comforted by the image. Step by step, would you somehow carry us both and lead us in a good way…again? Like we do here with two, strapping helpless kids on narrow sidewalks. Coated with dust, inhaling fumes, maneuvering through crap and uneven steps and drunks and dogs. Our arms tired but we keep our voices upbeat — for them. We carry, we lead, we get home somehow. We are those heavy children, Father. Doing what we know, the good and the bad. Please–speak to us in the voice of “we are going to get there.” In your heart of lifting and love. Move us in the right direction with Your cadence of protection and perspective; of ‘look at those pretty mountains’ and ‘we are closer than before.’ We do not know the way. Would you fill us with your tone and tenor of tenderness and struggle-less? 

Now, back on home soil, I thank God for the distance from those difficult nights of uncertainty about Asher. He is getting better. I also pray the same prayer for Now. Now we are here with there still on our skin and I still know that all I can do is ride, is hold on to the Caretaker. The daily is not so strenuous here but there are wider things to look at now, like ministry, our team, our future. We are here with dmv reminders and warehouse membership and hot running water and sofas. Oh how we missed having a sofa to sit upon. We are here with plans to make and news to catch up on and old roles in need of new adjustments. We are here with preschool plans and adoption applications and cell phones and creamer.

This morning, I wonder-prayed, to say nothing about the crying. I wondered to God what He thinks of this time, and what is sustainable self-care for moms and what can we do now that we can’t other times and what do we do other times that we cannot do now. I felt the disorientation of this time. I thanked Him for the journey so far, for His strong arms that carried us through dark nights and some long days. I thank Him that only day by day can we make progress and process. I thank Him for those who help me remember that by modeling patience and grace.

While I want knowledge to gain confidence, He offers love. The mystery of the Gospel is a fear-ridding, grace-producing love that precedes knowledge, that precedes all the orientation and answers in the world. He asks that that be enough many times. That those arms of love and grace be confidence enough until it is safe to walk, until we have another brief period of sure footing. May we each enjoy the Caring One, who carries each one, as we have been and are now being.

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For this reason I kneel before the Father, 15 from whom every family in heaven and on earth derives its name. 16 I pray that out of his glorious riches he may strengthen you with power through his Spirit in your inner being, 17 so that Christ may dwell in your hearts through faith. And I pray that you, being rooted and established in love, 18 may have power, together with all the Lord’s holy people, to grasp how wide and long and high and deepis the love of Christ, 19 and to know this love that surpasses knowledge—that you may be filled to the measure of all the fullness of God.   – Eph. 3:14-19