A Summer Solstice

I am an emotional wreck today. (Hush, those of you questioning that last word.) It’s relentlessly hot in Los Angeles and the heat scrambles all my emotional regulators and reason like eggs on a sidewalk. It just ain’t happenin over here. I would like to turn in my Adult card.

Sometimes the lack of my self-powered clarity and control allows a rush of Truth, over the rocks of desperation and face palms of discouragement. And in the midst of a mess, there’s a gift. Today, I remembered my name and was helped with worth. Even amidst the nonsensical noise that constantly, CONSTANTLY, fills my life with happiness and joy…

I urge you to walk in a manner worth of the calling to which you have been called…Eph 4:1

In an excerpt from For The Love, I read Jen Hatmakers’ litmus test for sound theological application after decades of her drinking the upper-class, homogenous white American Christianity Kool-aid that served her well with rights, wrongs and shoulds, but not always WELL. In essence, she’s landed on one helpful comparison to aid her escape: If it isn’t true for a poor single mom on Haiti, it isn’t true for me—theology is true for everyone. An interesting juxtaposition. I have some qualms but I see the point.

Today, this was the plate on which I was served Truth. As for me and my house, well— not really sure about serving the Lord today, but we are sure sweaty and cranky and needy—how about that! Conveniently, the little existential doubts about how I’m living life and how we are leading our family follow on the heels of, like, feeling defeated by Legos. No big THANG.

(They are literally so small and annoying and PREVALENT.)

It is a luxury to fret about our calling and decisions, to have options to weigh–to wrestle with what to buy and how to spend your free time. None of that is helpful to me today. But this, the litmus test and the Haitian woman whom I’d like to know, helped lift the weight.

To live a life worthy of the calling to which I am called does not mean gain professional development, put myself out there more, be a better housekeeper or have the admiration of other women. It does not mean I have to be perfectly groomed or humored or supportive. It means to have character. To be devoted to Love. These things are not accessible to the advantaged alone but also our sister in Haiti. Also to me at my worst. Character over competency, production, and charisma. Oh good, but oh crap.

So I don’t need to feel lousy about my disorganized closet and how that person treated me or be embarrassed when I size up my life compared to someone else’s. And I don’t need to feel secure all of a sudden when someone asks for my opinion or my kid does something well. I sit squarely before one set of eyes, grasped by one set of scarred hands. I may pretend to earn that spot and I may pretend I am outside of His gaze but my name suggests otherwise. Danielle means God is my judge, as the Old Testament prophet said, and my life is valuable insofar as it remains in His economy. His equalizing, grace-filled, no-nonsense system of rescued worth.

So maybe you find yourself a little disenchanted today. A little less enthused with your job, your hats, your people, your Self, this early summer day. Maybe along the way of fighting the good fight, you’ve become a little scrambled too and feel a little sensitive also.

You and I are not the sum total of our accomplishments and image and poise. You and I and the lady in Haiti are called to not dissimilar things. I want to walk in a manner worthy of that other-worldly economy; I want to stay in the belonging of that Grace-Gospel. So the hot days rattle less. So I have more in common with my namesake than the right or the left, or the perfectionism that haunts me. Peace be the journey.

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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