Feels Like September

I have a half-written grant proposal collecting dust in my computer. It talks about the dream of sitting under someone much farther along, who is not emotionally invested in your identity and protection in the way that your mother, or even grandmother, is, and should be. But she is someone who still knows, and who, because of her completed steps, can guide or understand or cushion your own. The brewing idea is one of intergenerational community of sisterhood, that debunks the mommyblogs and echo chambers we fall into, because like tends to like, and our technological toys silo us as much as they can connect. She is the see-er. The voice missing in our confounding mental loads as women doing it all, fighting competition, pushing justice, weighing obligations and avoiding high fructose corn syrup.

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I have this idea of learning from older women, not in spurts but in rhythm, and making it more possible for others, because of the incredible women who are already a part of my life. But in practice, I’ve struggled to do this.

Because the ladies in the shallow end at swimming lessons have also recently given birth. The women in my grad classes were career-minded, seeking first mortgages, internships, and noble peace prizes. The ladies on my feed are in the trenches, reaching out in the nano seconds of alone time our thirties give us for a like, a laugh, a lunch break. And it’s hard to stop and visit with my senior neighbor when the whining pulls. It’s hard to interview and take long walks and listen to senior women when I am chasing, scrambling, and budgeting every minute and dollar.

There is another voice I have missed, in addition to the one far in front of me. It is my own. To a lesser degree, to a smaller detriment, but still. Interruption is my norm. Bending and adjusting is the plan. I forget things when I only have to think about myself at this point; I am more awkward and uncertain the fewer moods rely on my preparation. I have sought the help of professionals and brutal/beautiful friends to help remember me before us.

Not to put too fine a point on it, but women throughout history have traded their very lives for the idea that there is nothing more important than nurturing others. In some ways, I believe that. In other ways, I know that idea, unexamined, threatens my sanity and health.       –Courtney Martin

I promote solitude in theory, primarily as a mode through which we hear God’s heart, not just our own. Not to brag but I have exercised it in 90-120 minute parcels irregularly over the past 11 years of adulthood/marriage/motherhood. The last time I had solitude that was not measured in minutes, but days, in which I was not completely anxious, was probably when I was 20. I am soon turning 33. I tried taking an overnight solitude retreat a few years ago. An alarm kept going off and there were no curtains in the sweet cottage nestled in the woods. I was officially citified by that point and completely distracted and edgy. Barely slept. When I was 20, I had 48 hour of solitude on a rock face, with a clif bar, a journal and bible, a sleeping bag, a headlamp, a water pump and bottle, and some sunscreen. It was one of the best things of college.

Tomorrow I embark on both a time of sitting for extended times with a woman much farther along than me, and being alone with my self and God, for not a matter of hours, but days. And I have no idea what to expect. It is a completely different situation than the past, oh, all my years, and I’m so grateful and humbled in advance, but also have trepidation. What does a day look like without a deadline and nap schedule and bell system? What DO I want to eat for breakfast, that meal that always eludes me? What will God show me as I sit, awkwardly quiet and un-needed? How will my life of planning, devoting, working, fighting for causes, and connecting with friends leave me to be, or inform who I am, away?

This summer has left some scars and presented good gifts. The school year is in full swing now. I remember that feeling of September, up in Oregon when we’d start school after Labor Day. Excitement. Unknowns. Courage and nerves, holding hands. Tiredness from that summer still on our shoes. This kind of feels like all of that. September is about diving in, and stepping out, and back to school. This year, me too.

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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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The Show Will Go On

This week I thought we may need to take a day to be a family of four again. But we are still five. Gratefully, surprisingly, tiredly, five.

Another twist in the road of foster-to-adopt. Another plot twist that leads our imaginations with new anticipation and wondering.

Throughout the past three months, each day has come in rhythm. Each night there is sleep. Each day there is activity. And we chug along. At the same time, there are the outstanding questions and trailing prayers that backdrop any normalcy. Under the piles of girl laundry. Hanging in the sleepy rooms of children’s nighttime breathing. Between the rows of bottles and the crowded stretch of carseats taking up the width of the car. At times, though so entrenched in the Daily, I feel the tense waiting as though I am in an amphitheater, waiting for a show to start. The stage holds no clues to the plot; the passing of time is unmeasured and undefined. In a crowd, I watch. I fidget. I try not to write my own script.

Through all the waiting, there has been divine grace. Grace I never knew I would – I could – bear witness to and definitely could not muster. A growing compassion for the woman whose baby I hold. A friendly calm and feeling amidst an assortment of their family members I have met and spent time with. A forgiveness for unfair behavior. A peace that allows us – all five – to sleep at night and wake in the morning.

This past week has held much upheaval. Aside from our personal phone calls and turn of events, there have been attacks, bad news, injustice, and poor decisions in our surrounding community. In these times we know with painful poignancy that we are small. That our definition of safety is not what it used to be. That anger and despair could take us. That we have grown spiritual muscle for this walk in the desert but maybe not enough and it is time to reach out and it is time to feed our souls and minds with life-giving things because the rest is life-taking.

And that is not all bad.

When our life pushes our faith to become less invested in things going our way, going easy, our love for Him becomes more disinterested and less false.

And the weaker my attachment is to a comfortable, self-defined plot, the more I can appreciate and sit in spaces of ambiguity and waiting.

So I will be thankful for that. I will be thankful for one more day of rising as five. One more way Love is introducing me to Himself. One less limit I have placed on His character and plan.

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Psalm 6:3-6 – O Lord, how many are my foes!

Many are rising against me;
many are saying of my soul,
there is no salvation for him in God.

But you, O Lord, are a shield about me,
my glory, and the lifter of my head.
I cried aloud to the Lord,
and he answered me from his holy hill.

I lay down and slept;

    I woke again, for the Lord sustained me.
I will not be afraid of many thousands of people
who have set themselves against me all around.

Psalm 4:8 – In peace I will both lie down and sleep;
for you alone, O Lord, make me dwell in safety.

Proverbs 3:1-6 – My son and daughter, do not forget my teaching,

    but let your heart keep my commandments,
for length of days and years of life
and peace they will add to you.

Let not steadfast love and faithfulness forsake you;
bind them around your neck;
write them on the tablet of your heart.
So you will find favor and good success
in the sight of God and man.

Trust in the Lord with all your heart,
and do not lean on your own understanding.
In all your ways acknowledge him,
and he will make straight your paths.

Anthem of the Waiting

Come sit with me in worship.

We hum if we have no words.

Still, we also can apologize, record, mourn.

Until the weight is lifted.

 

We will not say to the seers, “Do not see.”

We will not listen for smoothness or savings.

We will be reluctant with plans, and wary of rushing.

We will be waiting, waiting for the Teacher.

 

The loudest will not drink our attention.

The resting, the returning, is our sound pool.

The setting out follows long after the asking.

The reflexes are relaxed. Aged. Attuned.

 

We have full, big view of the high walls.

Still Grace bends around, under, before.

In resolve and stillness, we are saved quietly.

Our bleeding guts announce, Justice nears.

 

Waiting tries the weeping being saved.

But hurry destroys the Shalom Plan.

Soon, soon, we are helped.

We hear, “This is the way.”

 

And by then we are filled.

Lasting rest.

Responsive.

Ready.