First

I am a child of God first.

This became my mantra this week. It began to grow out of a conversation I had with a friend.

I have just been thinking that a lot of my stress comes from feeling insufficient, and if I just work harder, I’ll be more sufficient. I’m trying instead to look to God, who alone is sufficient, and declares us sufficient by His blood But I lose sight of that every other minute.

Lord, let us find our satisfaction in You, instead of in ourselves, and let us receive Your grace, a grace unknown and unoffered by this world.

Do you see the outgrowth? I feel insufficient. . .as a student, a friend, a practitioner, an adult. But! I am a child of God first. So when there is a person or situation that is standing there, making me feel insufficient and incapable, I remind myself that I am a child of God first, before any other thing or occupation, and that it is Him only I am living to please. Not others. And not myself.

But it has been a very sobering mantra. I am a child of God first. It seems almost like a feel-good cliché. Instead, it has been revealing to me how very little I have thought about what it really means to be a child of God first. What does it mean, really? In some aspects, I think it means we have to pay attention even more to what God says about Himself, because, as His children, He is also saying it about us. A complex thought which I am afraid of being misunderstood, but bear with me.

To paraphrase Rich Mullins, “Jesus didn’t come and die so you could live a comfortable life.” Okay, yes. But you cannot always define things by what they are not. Why did Jesus come and die? The most succinct answer I can give is, “To be about His Father’s will.” Jesus prayed a multitude of times for the cup of suffering and judgment to be taken from Him, yet, “not as I will, but as You will.” What He did, He did not out of self-fulfilling joy, but out of deliberate obedience to the Father, and the work the Father meant to accomplish.

I think that puts us, though perhaps not to the same degree, in the same place. It matters what God is doing, if we’re His children. Not children in the sense of spoiled royalty who get whatever we want. His children that are about the work of their Father.

What that has revealed to me this week is how very much I am not interested in being about the work of the Father, but rather how much I’m drinking the wine of this world. Its cares, its values, its priorities, its reason, its logic, and a pervasive desire to figure out how to get along with its people, its systems and its social rules. It has shown me how very much I have been trying to figure out how to get comfortable, and how to paint my favorite fairytales–how so very much I have been trying to create my life and lead my life, two things which are very acceptable by this world and contrary to a life of obedience to something much, much higher than you are. The first step to acknowledging the greatness of God is a deep humility in regards to yourself.

The more I try to define what a child of God is, the more I find I have been running the other direction. Not deliberately putting myself up against God, but fearing created thing (humankind) more than it’s creator. Avoiding speaking the the truth to avoid conflict, because sure, judgment is coming sometime, but. . .I mean, that’s between them and God. Well, the judgment is, sure, but how about the truth that we are supposed to bear witness too? I don’t want any type of conflict, but. . .isn’t light and dark supposed to be in conflict? If it were a novel, we would all be desperately hoping that the powers of light wouldn’t be giving way to the powers of dark, wouldn’t be accommodating, wouldn’t be trying to fade into the background and fit in. We’d be hoping they were putting up a strong resistance, because they would be the only hope of a happy ending. This would be horrifying, and isolating, and offending so many people. . .and possible only if you really acted as child of God first, knowing that this world and it’s forms are passing away and God’s word is enduring forever.

I don’t mean that we should go around deliberately trying to offend people. But Jesus was an offense, and warned us that if they were offended by the master, how much more so by the servants? He testified to the truth; He was the truth. He was perfect in every way, and utterly and completely rejected by this world. And if I am honest with myself, I very much would like to avoid that rejection.

I will try one more time to say it, to clarify what I am trying to get at: we can’t serve two masters. We will either please the one and anger the other, or anger the one and please the other. Yet at a certain level, I’ve been trying to please both. It doesn’t work. But committing to one most certainly means rejecting the other.  “Fleeing” to the place of affirming my identity as a child of God de facto means that I have to take a position of enmity toward the ideals of this world, which are resolutely set against God. Their god is their pleasure. Not so for the Child of God, who prayed with blood and sweat. Not so for us, if we truly go to join Him. There is a joy and a peace in following God, but it is not the comfort of this world. We cannot honestly pursue both.

And I am a child of God first. And still trying to learn to understand what that means.

Light

I grew up under the rather Puritanical mindset and teaching that life is miserable, and you had better just start getting used to that now. In classical fashion, my first growth beyond that mindset was rebellion against the bitterness and anger that so filled the people who accepted that mindset. Being angry at anger doesn’t solve anything, but sometimes it is our first step in waking up.

It’s still a struggle for me, though. That’s why I’m writing here under pseudonym. The people I grew up with would still be quick to tear all of this apart as “too optimistic” and “naive” and even “delusional.” Maybe. Maybe not. Sometimes I think people stay in the darkness because it seems safer. If we already expect the worst, we can’t be let down. And so they proclaim this darkness as “truth,” but it’s a self confirming bias. If you only take note of all the horrible and dark things that happen, than it certainly seems like “truth” is that life is made up only out of horrible dark things. These dark-livings then loudly proclaim that they have the truth, that everyone else is too childish to deal with. Maybe. Maybe not.

Even if we were to grant the dark-livings that they have the truth, or a portion of it, even, there is still this: But now abideth faith, hope, love, these three; and the greatest of these is love. And truth didn’t make the list. And if you put truth in the same category of fathoming all mysteries and knowledge (which I think is how the dark-livings are using the word truth, in that instance), then it gets the slam that it’s worth nothing without love. And love, we have plastered everywhere to the point that further words on it are at the moment rather unmeaningful, ought to be casting out the darkness.

But setting aside that worn path, what about faith and hope? The dark-livings would say that “if in this life only we have hope, we of all men are to be most pitied!” clearly implies that there’s NO hope for this life. It’s only in the ever-after that that there is hope, or fruit from faithfulness.

And there I part. There are a lot of hard and horrible things in life, and that I do not argue with at all. But they abide. Faith, hope and love. Now AND later. Some times you read about or witness or go through yourself some hard and horrible things that seem to be so pointless and endless. Other times, hard and horrible things and yet you can see the faith and hope and love shining through the absolute shit (in it’s literal meaning). If we are not the ones called to faith and hope in middle of all the darkness, who is?

So Faith is here. Hope is here. That is still hard for me to understand. I don’t think that hope means getting everything you want. But it has to mean something. And I think of the pillar of light leading the Israelites. Not everything was light. But there was that pillar, and it was bright. You have to have faith, though, or else you won’t follow it. The pillar of light goes wandering off, and you stay put, gritting your teeth for the darkness, now that the light is gone.

I’m not trying to imply there aren’t times when it seems like all goes dark and the veil is rent, and that is all. What I am saying is, when we do see light, do we shield ourselves from it, and from what it might mean? Or do we follow the light in faith and hope?

It’s easy to say the second. Not so easy when you have lived or seen others live through being so happy to see what looks like light, and then having their hopes dashed. What do you say? My faith is better than yours, so the hope that I have won’t be disappointed? That’s why this is such a hard topic for me to write about. How can you claim hope for yourself when you know other people have hoped and seen no fruit from that hoping?

And that’s where the anger and the bitterness come from. I understand that a little better now that I did before. But I still don’t think it’s right. We are no where called to be angry and bitter. So understandable or not, we have to reject the mindsets that inevitably lead us there: they aren’t really truth, in it’s ultimate sense. They can’t be.

Understanding the hurt that can and does exist can make us more fearful and doubtful of both faith and hope and even love. Yet even a fool can see that the greatest faith and hope and love is that which has withstood the greatest fears and the deepest darkness. So it cannot be naivete that causes us to stumble after the light, but rather courage.

I read the works of Emily P. Freeman once, and to paraphrase, she was putting forth that sometimes God uses both our human limits and our deep-seated desires to guide us, to actually lead us into what He had prepared for us to do. This both at once had the sense of being very liberating and a ring of truth, and also, completely against everything I have ever known. You fight and wrestle with human limitations. You are always called upward and onward toward more. You are never enough and must always keep striving. And you should put to death any of your desires for pleasant things, which you wouldn’t get anyways, and besides you don’t really need them, and besides, it’s probably just your fallen nature seeking after things you shouldn’t really be wanting anyhow.

Not that there’s any bitterness there at all or anything.

Ok, lots.

The thing is, it seems to me, a lot of darkness-living people are doing a lot more gritting of their teeth than they are praying. Not even asking for things is different than respecting the authority of God to have a better understanding than you of what is good. The darkness-living winds up being a lot more like the un-prodigal son, who is mad he never got to have party, even though he never asked. Or like the miserly servant who refused to do anything with his talent because it would all be taken away from him anyway.

And asking is different than setting an ultimatum. One of the most wondrous passages I’ve ever read is when it says that those who seek Him will find Him. And it seems to me that if we are finding Him, then we are finding His will. And it seems to me that part of seeking is asking. So if you have this desire in your heart, how do you know if it something you should be following up on or not, unless you ask?

And if you keep asking for clarity and direction and understanding and discernment, and the same thoughts keep coming up again and again, at what point do you allow that maybe the desire is the answer?

I don’t know the answer to that. But it does seem to me that the important step there is the seeking and the praying about it. Only you won’t ever do that if every time the thing that you want pops up, you stuff it back down because it’s obviously too good to be true. And if you accept the teaching that life is all about not having what you want and always learning to live with doing things you don’t like and are hard for you, then you don’t ask.

I have sometimes seen this line of thinking shortened down to “the desire is the answer.” That I do not mean. That implies that you wouldn’t be wanting anything, unless it was God’s will to give it to you, and I don’t agree with that at all. But what I have found is that instead of feeling frustrated and angry when the minute I get a free moment, my thoughts invariably fall toward some of the same old familiar topics and themes, what I should really do is take it seriously. Think about it. Pray about it, very specifically. And be at peace that if it stays, you keep praying about it. And if it goes, you got another kind of answer.

But it staying is a kind of an answer. You can’t really in good conscience pretend something isn’t important when the same thing keeps coming up over the course of your whole life. Even if it is what looks good to you. It’s real. It’s important. It deserves prayer. It shouldn’t be dismissed. It should be treated with faith and with hope even more than it should be treated with logic and rational thought and emotion. God is still leading, sometimes with a pillar of cloud, and sometimes with a pillar of light.

Working and Waiting

For Christmas, I decided I wanted to paint a picture for my card. I’ve not really painted much, and most of what I have painted, I’ve not been very happy with. I’ve dabbled, occasionally, in plain pencil drawing — more often tracing over the outline from a photo and then practicing paying attention to shading. And people have told me, maybe more often than I realize, that I showed artistic leanings that just needed to be developed, and that I should taking drawing and such more seriously. But it’s work, and I don’t have time for work, so I mostly did nothing.

Anyhow, the Christmas card — since I had this idea in my head, very vividly, I decided I had to take this project seriously. So I did what I’ve seen described a million times before. I folded my reference photo in to a grid, and then drew a grid on my watercolor paper. Then I looked at each grid individually, and tried to represent what was in there. I was running out of time, so I only had two sessions to paint it — once for the general idea, and then again to build on details.

And you know what? The thing came out fantastic. I kind of didn’t even recognize it as my own handwork. Because when I actually applied some discipline to my efforts instead of slap-dash hurried attempts, well, who knew? I actually had some sort of talent buried in there after all.

Lately I have been thinking about my writing. Well, not really thinking about it, as much as finding it is on my mind, but having no clearly defined thoughts on the matter. The thing is, I’ve never really thought about my writing before. I’ve always just done slap-dash hurried attempts, and never really gone back to edit or refine. Never really did base planning work. It served it’s purpose in the moment, and it was good enough for me, but I’ve never really tried to apply discipline to it.

In the last few days, especially, I’ve been stumbling over half-birthed poems I’ve scribbled down places. Kind of tantalizing, but also the epitome of not really knowing what I’m doing. I need to find some sort of online course that walks you through the basics of poetry, of meter, of how to do on purpose that which I’ve only sort of felt around in the dark and taken a gut guess at.

The thing is, I don’t have anything at the moment that I desperately want to say. This is perhaps even one of the roots of my worrying over my writing — it’s not like me to feel at a loss of words, which I have for months. But I can’t escape the feeling that, like my painting, if I just applied some actual effort and discipline, I would be a good deal more impressed by what was revealed. And also, another disquieting feeling — that writing slap-dash wouldn’t be satisfying anymore. That it served it’s purpose, for it’s time, and will likely continue to serve in some kind of role. But that it’s no longer enough of a challenge to be amusing. That now I have to be writing “on purpose” to get that same feeling of satisfaction.

It’s a bit of the chicken-or-the-egg problem, though. First I feel like I need to have a topic (and perhaps an audience) important enough to deserve a little extra effort. For my painting, it was a Christmas card. It doesn’t have to be a big deal. But it does have to be more than a passing whim. One would think if the corollary were just a Christmas card, it wouldn’t be hard to come up with a topic worthy of effort. But I feel like I have nothing important to say, and my mind feels pitifully blank.

I don’t know where I will wind up with all of this, of course, but I feel like the prodding is getting more frequent and more meaningful. You have something here. You ought not ignore it. Put some discipline into it.

Okay. I will. But for now, I think still at the spot of waiting for the idea that’s worth the work.

 

 

Music That Rings True

Stricken, Smitten, and Afflicted,
See him dying on the tree
‘Tis the Christ by man rejected,
yes, my soul, ’tis He, ’tis He
Tis the long Expected prophet
David’s Son, yet David’s Lord
By His Son God has now spoken
Tis the true and faithful Word

Sometimes we have to say things. Out loud. We might all know them, we might all think we believe them, but it is almost in the saying of them that they become real.

Tell me, ye who hear Him groaning,
Was there ever grief like His?
Friends through fear His cause disowning,
Foes insulting His distress;
Many hands were raised to wound Him,
None would interpose to save;
But the deepest stroke that pierced Him
Was the stroke that Justice gave.

And so often I catch myself thinking, “It’s not fair!” But I don’t think that phrase means what I think it means.

Ye who think of sin but lightly
Nor suppose the evil great
Here may view its nature rightly,
Here its guilt may estimate.
Mark the Sacrifice appointed,
See who bears the awful load;
‘Tis the WORD, the LORD’S ANOINTED,
Son of Man and Son of God.

We were speaking of sin and righteousness this afternoon–the excuses we make for sin, and the severity of God’s righteousness. It is one thing to feel offended that God’s righteousness is too much for us to bear; it’s another to consider what that means for God.

Here we have a firm foundation;
Here the refuge of the lost;
Christ’s the Rock of our salvation,
His the name of which we boast.
Lamb of God, for sinners wounded,
Sacrifice to cancel guilt!
None shall ever be confounded
Who on Him their hope have built.

But I feel confounded. I feel confounded all the time.

While singing is often when I am most meditating on and speaking the truth. This comes as a bit of a surprise to me, as people tend to hold up as “godly examples” spending much time in prayer or reading the Bible. And those things are important. But it is one thing for me to read that He is a Good, Good Father, and it is another thing for me to affirm it out loud.

I’m scared, sometimes by the smallest and silliest of things. I’m scared when it seems like I’ve lost my voice for writing. I’m scared, when I see my own bars I’ve set that I just can’t clear. I’m scared by relationships that seem to be drifting further and further apart. I’m scared by my perceived inability to make a real difference in anything, and that fear is invincible to the comments of others. I’m scared of my apparent invisibility as I move through life.

But those things don’t really matter. I mean, of course they do; but they don’t. They’re so fleeting. Their relative weight is so small. What do I have to offer? Nothing, really. What does He have to offer? Everything, really.

Next, I find out

Once upon a time, I had time to think and time to write what I was thinking. I look forward to getting back to that place, but I also wonder how my thinking and writing has changed since then. Even when I’m not writing in the expected sense of “somewhat visibly,” I am writing, all the time. Some people wake up to a cup of coffee; I wake up to writing two pages in a spiral bound notebook.

It’s not great literature. It reads like you might expect from someone who is still waking up. Half the time it’s probably a rehashing of all the swirling to-do lists in my head. Always, the same themes get visited and re-visited and done to death. And growth is slow. I never felt different between one birthday and another, and yet in five years time can barely recognize the person I used to be.

The last seven years have been an incredible catalyst of change and growth, in big ways and small ways, and as I see — on the horizon — some sort of chance for the dust to settle a little bit, I think I am also scared. Scared, a little, to see who I am now. I was too busy changing and growing to understand what kind of changing and growing was happening, and so now, when things start to settle, I feel like I will be rediscovering who I am.

That sounds stupid. Not to you, maybe. To me. Because I’ve always felt like “not knowing who you are” is more (to my intellectual mind) a problem with not have the courage to own who you are. How can you not know who you are? You are who you are. You are you. What are you expecting to find?

I don’t know exactly how my thinking on this has changed, and by that I mean, I’m not sure what my current conclusions are. One of the most bizarre things from being sick, really sick, is this strange feeling I have now of only “inhabiting” my body, and not being “one” with my body. Previously, my body and me were pretty much inseparable. Me and it, it and me, you don’t get one without getting the other. But when I was at my most sick, things became more and more surreal, and I felt more and more often like I was watching my body in the third person. “Me” is still me, and yet this body thing, it’s very peculiar; it’s malfunctioning. “Me” isn’t malfunctioning, but the body I drive around is. How odd. How strange.

It lingers a little. And I begin to realize other ways in which I have been rather indiscriminatory between “me” and just the things really close to “me.” I like to characterize myself as a bossy older sister, but as I come back home again and again, I find that “thing” to be slipping away. We’re all older. And I don’t want to boss. And half the time it seems like my younger siblings know better than I do, anyhow.

My stories are more grounded. I don’t mean I don’t still tell myself stories, but it’s getting harder and harder to find the romance in them. At one point in my life, I could make being a college student sound glamorous to myself. I’ve seen enough of school to make me puke, and I just can’t squeeze any glamor out of it. The less you know about things, the more softly you paint them, and in more gentle colors. Traveling half across the country is both easier than you think, and also, less adventuresome. Not because I did adventure, but because, what do you know, you have to respond to your car breaking down on a one way road up mountainside, with wildfires raging through the state, the exact same way that you, well, respond to a broken faucet. There is a good deal less romance than you might think, and even a good deal less adrenaline, and a good deal more of trying to figure out the next reasonable little step to take.

It makes life somehow a good deal more accessible and also a good deal more boring. Before you get out there and muddle around, you can pretend how interesting and exciting it must be. After you muddled for a bit, you realize that where ever you go, you still bring you. And that shapes your experiences about as much or more as your experiences shape you.

But going through a lot of stuff that you just have to grit your teeth and wade through, because that is what you have to do, because that is life, also leaves you with much more defined ideas of what you do and do not like. The imaginative brush has been hardened, and there’s less of a fantasizing about what you might liked to and how you suppose something would be marvelous. When the dreaminess starts to get stripped away, you’re left with more of a concrete list of Wants and DO NOT WANTS.

Yet the clearing away of the ambiguity starts to also unveil another problem: it’s harder to just take what comes, or to just “go along.” And then I begin to discover that things that I thought were “me” were really just things that were happening in close proximity around “me” and I was just “going along.” And if that’s not really “me” then where do I go now? What do I do now? There is less ambiguity about me, but more ambiguity about where I really belong in the world. Where’s my place?

And some of the frustration is realizing that I have been through a lot, and it has changed me, and I’m not quite sure how yet. I’m still unpacking, literally and figuratively. Part of it is realizing, rather suddenly, really, how the people I’ve been the closest to haven’t been on this journey. Hardly at all. Not only have a grown in ways that they haven’t come along with, but they have quite likely grown in other directions. Unbridgeable? No. But it doesn’t mean we fit together the way we have before, or that we ever will again. Sometimes this is good growth, but it doesn’t make it any less scary.

People ask me what comes next, and I’m kind of afraid to talk about what I hope does come next. Because I don’t want to “go along;” that’s a brutal kind of hard. What I want is something that would undoubtedly still be hard, but it would be “Me.” And that makes it better, even if it doesn’t make it easier. But you kind of get two choices: Go Along or Fight Against. And fighting against is hard. It’s hard to swim against the subtle and pervasive expectations of All The Reasonable People, in their various camps. But it’s also hard to choke out the parts of you that have survived the crucible, the things that are now known to be Me.

That might seem straight forward enough, but it’s not. Because woven and tangled into that is realization that some of the Wants are just tendrils of trying to escape the Don’t Wants, and those two are not in actuality the same thing. There is a certain aspect of wanting to live honestly, and in that sense I mean not trying to be something you’re not. But there’s also a certain aspect of, I don’t like This; what is Not This? It’s hard to sort out.

Life Takes Courage. Always.

Also, vulnerability, honesty, humility, compassion, discernment, integrity. And these things seem like cliché, because everyone says them, but unfortunately people mostly act like they would be “good” accessories to have. Not basic necessities needed for day to day survival. Yes, I did say survival. Without those things, we self-destruct. Where ever I go, whatever I do, it never seems like I have enough of those things.

And I leave that there as the ending, not because it’s an answer to the question. But it is a truth that co-exists with the uncertainty, and sometimes that is where you have to start.

 

 

Flannel

The flannel is

the closest

thing to comfort me

still me and

hold me

gently.

The flannel only

knows me

the measured breath

the covered breast

the fears and

the dreams

are kept.

The flannel has

room for

more than just me;

no jealous lover

yet exists

for me.

The flannel wants

not part of

me, my life or being.

If I come

or go

still

the flannel is.

(9/16, rough draft only, without revision)

Trust and obey

So often I only seem to manage to write here when I am stuck in an ugly place, and that makes it all the more refreshing to be able to write, occasionally, from places of noteworthy peace. Not, mind you, noteworthy energy or noteworthy answers, or noteworthy understanding. Just peace.

This is not a peace that comes from knowledge. I mean, my peace is “God has a plan.” But I’ve heard that and “known” the unceasingly. Sometimes, what we know becomes in a more full sense for us Truth: in the words of Thomas, “My Lord and my God.”

Since there is no new knowledge, it seems at times hard to describe to anyone else the kind of change that takes place. There was no sudden revelation or clear words from heaven. If I could partially attribute it to anything, I would attribute it in part to finally having a chance to digest some of the most difficult and unpredictable things I’ve ever gone through. Note that I did not say “going through those things”; I said digesting having gone through those things. There was very little peace in the midst of them, or even right after them.

In the space of one night, I went from my body functioning, to my body and my mind not functioning at all. When you cannot even depend on the body that houses you, so many kinds of uncertainty open up. This lasted months upon unending months. In one year, my health dipped drastically lower than it ever has, improved to higher heights than I can remember in decades, and finished the roller coaster by dropping once again. I am in the process of spending the better part of a year being essentially homeless, and driving north and south and east and west across this country, big enough to span many countries. In this rotation alone, there’s been more nights than I can count where I literally did not know where I was going to be sleeping that night.

I have said it before, but one seems to have to continuously re-learn: Sometimes having utterly all control stripped away from you leads to a greater peace when you finally have no choice, no option, no power or ability or determination to do anything other than trust.

And sometimes you don’t or can’t, and you just slog through weeks and months of misery. There’s that, too.

That’s why I feel like digesting all the hardness and uncertainty is only part of it. The other part — again, we are not discussing new knowledge, so my apologies if you were hoping for a revelation to change your life — is the growing conviction that God loves me. That God likes me. That He’s not arbitrary and distant. That He has plans for me — GOOD plans, not cold, calculating, take-your-medicine-and-stop-whining plans.

I can’t for the life of me tell you how or when that happened. Except, obviously, sometime between now and the last time I wrote. Again, no grand revelations. Just a quiet coming along side, you and Me — we’re in this together. He goes ahead to prepare. And it’s going to be okay. It’s going to be more than okay; it’s going to be good. I don’t know how or what or why or when. I just know it has to be good. Because He is good, and He is in control, and I have heard that all a million times before and sometimes it just turns into Real. My Lord and my God.

 

If I was a good writer, I would stop right there. Many a good work has been painfully burdened with an uncalled for epilogue that doesn’t display any trust in the reader. Even knowing that, I feel compelled to point out that “my Lord and My God” is what Thomas said after God rubbed his face in the fact that that he was not believing the things he needed to be believing. Come to think of it, that’s pretty much Job in a nutshell, too.

It continues to fascinate me how it is so much easier for us to believe the things that terrify us rather than the things that will comfort and encourage and strengthen us. Perhaps, for some select few, hope comes easy; but for most of us, it seems, it takes a good deal of audacity to hope. (This concept did not, incidentally, begin with a certain senators book; I dare say it’s been around a good long time, but you might enjoy reading this: http://www.theatlantic.com/daily-dish/archive/2008/03/for-the-record/218866/ ) I think that everyone can interpret the use of that word – audacity – a little differently. For me, it is the idea of, “Who am I, that I should expect any good?”

Again, maybe not everyone struggles with that particular aspect. But while it is more frequent a topic to discuss “hidden sins,” most people don’t even seem to acknowledge another fault: hidden dreams. On first scan, it seems unnecessary to call it a fault. Wanting good things, verifiability good things, and not making a fuss out of it, hardly seems like something to complain about. But the problem, I have discovered (and to me, this part is new knowledge) is the “hidden” part. Because hiding implies that it isn’t safe or can’t be trusted. To “hide good things” is to in a way act as though one cannot be trusted with good things, or with us, or with our delicate hearts. Rather than dare to tell Him, “God, this is really what I want from the future,” I stash it in the corners and peek at when I pretend He isn’t looking. That’s not trust.

Upon reflection, maybe this piece has more to do with it all than I first realized. The last month or so has really been a time of me confessing my hopes and dreams and desires to God. I don’t think I ever before really understood how hopes and dreams could be involved in the same sentence as “confessing,” but I have been becoming increasingly convicted that this was an area that I tried to keep from God. That He could have His plans, and I’d make my little doll house plans, and if they didn’t happen, I understood, but I would have my own little doll house plans, that I would mostly try to hide from Him so He wouldn’t mock him. That’s not trust.

I do repeat myself. It’s important. Sitting there and saying, “You know, God, this is what I want,” is something that I actually continue to find to be incredibly difficult to do. But as with confessing sin, also strangely freeing. There’s a quiet resentment to hiding your dreams. And there is no guarantee that by confessing your dreams, you get them miraculously fulfilled. There is freedom in clearing the air and admitting freely that you do have hopes and dreams. But there is also that audacity of hope.

And that is when I discovered, when I bring the desires of my heart before Him — as is His explicit injunction — He doesn’t mock me. He doesn’t crush me. He doesn’t promise blank-check I’ll get everything I want, but (curiously!) there seems to be no offense in me saying, “these are my dreams.” I might not get what I want, but if I don’t, it’s only because He has something better planned.

I still wonder. I still want to know. But I am so much less afraid.

Oh, year.

There are a lot of people ringing in the new year, and large portion of them are bemoaning that 2016 wasn’t a good year. I feel a little like protesting – it’s not the year’s fault. The seasons still changed nicely. I’m pretty sure we still made it around the sun. Isn’t that what a year is?

And I know I am inclined to be optimistic about these things. Facebook just reminded me about a truly inspirational new years post I made 3 years ago, chipper enough that I wondered what the heck my 2013 had been like to inspire such words out of me. Plus also, I am a little bit cynical, and I think a lot of people are saying it was a bad year just because they didn’t like the way the election went, and you have to admit it was pretty horrible on all grounds, but that doesn’t mean that nothing else happened the whole year long.

Yet I must confess: 2016 was a hard year for me. Some people say a little wiser, and I suppose – and most definitely do hope – that is true. A little more broken, I am sure. Kinder? Maybe. But hard? Yes.

And there were a lot of hard things, and in a lot of different ways. But mostly because 2016 was The Year of the Sickness.

Mostly recently, I have been struggling with coming to the dreadful realization that I Am Sick. Not was. For the longest time I have been trying to ask things like “am I sick, or is it just hard to be homeless?” “am I sick or is it the winter?” “am I sick, or is this something else?” It was a better of a hammer blow when I suddenly realized not or, but rather and. Sick, and homeless, and tired, and stressed. And sick. Not or.

There was a brief month or two this summer when I didn’t feel sick; in fact, I felt awesome. Like when I was a teenager. Or maybe younger. And that made me stop and think. How long has this been building? How long have I been sick and thinking it was normal? When it’s all you’ve ever known, what do you have to compare it too? I don’t know what brought it on to boiling point, to spilling over the top and over everything. I do know that I can’t avoid it. I’ve tried, but even when kept at bay, it is still simmering just under the surface.

I have found, speaking of the new year, that actually doing things depends solely on motivations. Not on plans, and not on wants. You can want a thing until you’re blue in the face, and never really put the work into it. You can plan the most perfect plan, but never be able execute it. But when you are motivated, truly convicted within your soul, it doesn’t matter if you have a crummy plan or no plan at all, or even how much you might feel the thing is pleasant.

Take going to graduate school, for instance. I didn’t really want to, I just became fully convinced that it was the thing I was supposed to do. Fully convinced. Utterly planless, away I went. Sometimes things didn’t work out until the very last minute, like applying to school hours before they closed the deadline for accepting admissions, or finding a new room to rent on the day my previous lease ended.

Other things, I have “wanted” to do for years, decades, even. Or planed, with really ornate plans. And these things haven’t fruited, or if they have, it has been in stilted, stunted and half-formed manners.

So the question isn’t what do you want out of the new year, or what do you plan for the new year, but what are you utterly convicted to do?

For me, I have two things:

  1. Graduate. I am so sick of going to school that I would do nearly anything to stay on track and graduate this spring. And I proved that last January and February and March and April and May and June: showing up for classes nearly out of my mind with sickness, propping myself up with special chairs and pillows and finding a place to lay down for the 20 minutes in between, sometimes barely able to keep my eyes open and sometimes shifting restlessly in pain. But I showed up, and I did the work. I’m not quite sure how, but I think largely it was from a pure desperation to be done with school. The end is almost in sight now, and my eyes are fixed on it like a hunting dog on a rabbit.
  2. Figure out how to manage my sickness. And I don’t even know what that means, for certain, except that I am pretty sure it means social isolation. But I’m past the planning and past the wanting, and I just Have To Do This.

It might seem strange to think that figuring out how to take care of your malfunctioning body would be part and parcel with social isolation, but it is. Because it means eating differently. And there is truth that fellowship is found in sharing meals. And the people around you – they won’t eat radically different, just because you discover that you have to now. And sometimes it seems like – it would just be easier to not be around people at all, than to be with them while they eat in a manner that you no longer can.

This sounds so very melodramatic. There are millions of people with all sorts of food allergies or diabetes or other dietary restrictions, and they survive just fine. But the hard part of 2017 is the finding out. I know that if I radically strip my diet, my body is much happier. But I don’t know what it is that I’m stripping or adding in or doing differently that is bringing relief to my body. I don’t know what I can’t eat. I don’t know what I can eat.

That means, 2017 is the year of turning myself into a science experiment. And I don’t want to. There is nothing appealing about experimenting on yourself, to the isolation with interactions with family and friends. But the alternative is that this goes on. That I keep making myself miserable, with no clear idea of why.

And it scares me, because I don’t have any idea what the outcome will be – one ingredient, a host of restrictions, a stringent diet for the rest of my life? And I don’t know what it means as it affects my future. If I really find that it is more than an ingredient and is truly a way of life, what does that mean – about many things? About what you do when you go to social engagements like weddings and friend’s houses and people offering to take you out to eat. About how affordable your food may or may not be. About living with other people or living by yourself.

And it’s that last one that really gets me. Because I am so tired of being homeless. I’ve been tossed about, over and over. I want to get grounded. And there is some hope in the idea of rest: whatever else the future holds, after I graduate, I will go and stay with my family for, at the very least, some while. So I can rest while I figure out what comes next. So I can stay put for a while, with people I know and love, and with trees and dirt and air.

But if I can’t eat anything that rest of my family eats, what kind of torture will it be to sit down with everyone else to eat, and to not eat? To not eat homemade ice cream, or brownies warm from the oven, or pizza just pulled off the stones or even the ambrosial homemade pesto? Every day a battle of refusing fellowship by making my own food and trying to ignore the proclamations of delight from a host of feasting family?

It’s not much to look forward to; neither is living alone. I need answers, I need to take care of my body. . .but it’s not really what I want. And what I really want is not something that can be planned for. (Like having my own family, for instance, but I think I harp on that rather often enough.)

Mostly, I don’t feel like I have a lot to offer 2017. I feel like 2017 is a salvage year, when you mostly try to pick up all of the pieces and figure out how they fit together now. Maybe in 2018, I’ll be back to being full of optimism and plans for the future and grand schemes, but for now. . .I just want to stop hurting. I want to stay in one place. I want to have the autonomy to make some choices about how I spend my days. I want what I am going through now to be over. May I be granted that grace.

 

oh my aching bones

Tired of being tired is an old cliche. I’m almost even tired of writing about being tired.

Friday night into well into Saturday, I slept better than I have in months and months and months. Saturday night into Sunday, it was gone again, replaced with fitfully tossing and turning, and waking up early. Which means it is my emotions that are keeping me from sleeping, which makes me ANGRY.

I hate it when my emotions get in the way of very practical things, like sleeping. There’s a long list of things my emotions are getting in the way of right now, but sleeping might well top the list. The only, only, only helpful piece of advice I ever got for emotions-getting-in-the-way-of-life was: You need more time for yourself. It’s as much a necessity as going to the bathroom. You need to. You have to. You can only put it off for so long.

It’s good advice — it nearly always works — but it’s still maddening sometimes how impossibly out of your control it can seem to be to follow it. What, do you think I planned on being broken down in the remote mountains half across the country for three days? You think I planned the insane madness of switching jobs and living situations every 10 weeks?

So the problem is, I have to write about being tired. I have to be “with” all the emotions, even just the quiet chorus chanting “tired, tired, so, so, tired” in the back of my head, all of the time. Even the lamenting voice that says, “I am just so bone weary tired.”

And I wish I could get beyond them, to the other emotions. To the hopes and dreams and profound(ish) thoughts. But as with grief, it seems like sometimes you have to just sit there and hang-out in the lone note sounded too long. Or maybe the chord, who’s base note is tiredness, and on top of that is fear, and on top of that is hurry.

And it is so tempting to think that if you could just DO, then things would get better. Get rid of the hurry, and the fear will go away. Get rid of the fear, and the tiredness will go away. But the doing actually seems to feed the hurry and the fear and the tiredness. And it seems like the only way it really works is to rest first. How is it we can be too tired to rest? Because in order to rest, you have to trust that God is taking care of the worry and hurry.

Be tired? Yes.

Rest anyway.

 

still looking

I’m just so tired I want to puke, that’s all.

Tired of change, tired of growing, tired of waiting, tired of showing up, tired of not knowing, and also, just plain tired. When you wake up aching with your shoulders by your ears, you know you aren’t really sleeping well.

I just keep wondering what God is going to do with any of this. Having I been changing–growing–transforming, even? Yeah. But into what? That I don’t know. 7 years ago I drove white knuckled into the nearest city to volunteer, driven by a sheer desperation to do what I needed to do, even though finding my way in strange places, in the dark (no GPS in those days, and driving itself was usually enough to make me white-knuckled) was quite the painful stretch for me. And now I’ve dragged myself half-across the country, by myself. I keep showing up and faking it, which takes tremendous effort nearly every day, but, you know, when do you get to arrive?

When do you get to sigh, and stretch out, and relax, and maybe enjoy a few moments of bliss? When do you get to say, “Ah-ha! That’s what that was all about!” When do you get to snuggle up to someone you love and say, “Our work has been hard, but what beautiful things have been wrought.”

I’m afraid of the answer being, “Not in this lifetime, sweet-cheeks.” I feel like I have been pushed and pushed and pushed and am still being pushed, and yet I have no clue about the pay-off. Here I am, a stranger once again, and I still keep wondering, Why? Why am I here? Why am I a stranger again? What do I have to learn, or what do I have to give? Why does it never seem to end?

People say really sappy things like, “you’re what keeps me going!” That’s grand and all, but what if you don’t have someone to keep you going? Flying solo means there’s no co-pilot if you need to take a potty break, or a tearful meltdown, or even just to stop and smell the roses a bit. And it’s like being the raven sent out looking for land after the flood; you have to keep flying 24/7, but you aren’t really sure what you’re looking for or even if it exists. What if you just keep going because being lost and staying put is the only thing that feels worse than being lost and wandering around in circles?

And traditionally, this is where I’m told (even if just by myself) to man up and stop whining and remember that everyone else has a rough life, too. In their own ways, and with their own struggles and with their own doubts and fears. Although I suppose that’s an equally valid reason to NOT shut-up: struggling through life is a valid experience that everyone goes through, and there’s no need to pretend it’s all fluffy clouds and spun-sugar roses.

So, ow. This hurts. I’m still not quite sure if I’m a caterpillar being turned into a butterfly, or a caterpillar being turned into a . . . really mashed-up caterpillar. If this is all a refining, then where’s the gold, people?