back to school

This past Wednesday I returned to school for the first time since 2003.

A clash of worlds, really, like one of those dreams where your best friend from junior high is suddenly eating lunch with you at your current job, and in the dream, it somehow makes perfect sense — then you wake up, disoriented, thinking What the hell…

Trudging up the stairs from the parking lot, hand in hand with my husband, I felt the colliding and was caught off-guard by it.  Justin knows me, knows as many stories as I’ve been able to think to tell him, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was, in some weird way, introducing him to me at twenty-two.

New husband.  Old school.  Old memories.  Old self.

Collision.

Some things are, thankfully, very different than when I last called Bellingham home.  The car accidents that prompted my departure from school in the first place don’t have the prevalence (in my body and in my thoughts) they did then.  That shoulder is still a little achy at times, and the damp Western Washington cold does nothing to encourage my knees to quit complaining, but the pain is nothing to what it was before, and my percoset-free state proves it. 

I’m thrilled about my studies (in creative non-fiction), which is something I couldn’t say before.  What a huge difference this makes!  Studying Communication back then, I knew I wasn’t being honest with myself about what I truly wanted, deep-down in my guts (my guts know more than I give them credit for, and yours probably do, too).  I knew I was chasing the wrong thing for the wrong reasons, but I didn’t have the courage to admit a misstep and take a new direction.  There’d already been too many false starts.

In an odd and exquisitely painful way, the accidents were a blessing.  They forced a different course.

In other ways, my 27-year-old self isn’t much different.  I’m still neurotically insecure, the queen of critical thoughts.  Once Justin headed toward his class and I toward mine, I began thinking about where to look as I was walking by myself through campus.  I’m serious.  I had an entire thought process built around Do I stare blankly ahead, past all the oncoming faces?  Do I make eye contact?  Smile?  Should I look down to make sure I don’t trip on a brick out here in front of God and everybody? 

Does looking straight down make me look like some kind of freak?

Don’t get me started on what to do with my hands.  The whole stationary/swinging back and forth debate stole another few minutes of my life I’ll never get back.

Not that I expected it to, but I don’t find that marriage has “fixed” any of my self-consciousness.  Being loved and embraced in all my oddness, I squirm a little less, that is all.  Squirming less, that is all – but what a relief I’ve found, even in that.  (I’ve said it before, but sometimes it’s real important to measure growth in millimeters). 

Going back to school is equal parts excitement and sheer terror for me.  I feel rusty and out of practice.  A little old, perhaps.  I listen to the magnitude of what people much younger than me know — the history, the philosophy, the facts and dates — and feel quite candidly that I’ve arrived at this party a little late; I wonder if I’ll ever be able to catch up.  I think about my decade-long pursuit of a degree and have to gulp down my very real embarrassment at not having had a more direct and successful path to an illustrious piece of paper saying I’ve finally finished something.  I think about how unfinished and un-figured-out I still am.  

Then, mercifully, I remember me at 22.

At 22, I didn’t know shit.  At 22, I don’t think anyone does.  Degree or not, I’m not sure anyone has a very good grasp on what they want to be when they grow up until they’re about 30, or, in the far more serious case of writers, 40.  Five years ago, I was on a very determined and steady, responsible path — in the wrong direction.  It happens.  For a lot of us, that’s part of the journey we travel toward becoming grown-up human beings.  For a lot of those barely-out-of-high-school faces I see in my classes, those twists and turns and changes-of-majors are not far off. 

I wouldn’t go back. 

This is my joy in returning to school now, clumsy and awkward as I am:  I still don’t know shit, but at least I know I don’t know shit.  Even though I’m not completely at peace with that, it seems like a good place to begin.  Humbled, perhaps – deep-red-blush embarrassed at times – but ready, at last, to learn.

So — here’s to not knowing shit.

Thing One/Thing Two

currently hearing: frou frou/details

First, a little explaining.  If I’m not a good pray-er, as I admitted a few posts ago, I’m a worse Bible-reader.  It was always a to-do; always an empty check-off box.  All my life, since I was young, I felt supremely ashamed of myself every time the subject was broached at church, keenly aware that I was failing in this all-important measure of spirituality, and forever vowing to do better. 

I never did better. 

Guilt was such a big part of my experience when I was younger.  It’s really not surprising that I wasn’t exactly falling all over myself to read in even more detail the many ways that I was completely blowing it.

For many reasons, things have changed, and I find myself reading because I want to.  When it comes right down to it, I’m pretty curious about what this book actually says.  So much was misrepresented by the well-intentioned during the formative years of my faith… now that I’m reading scripture for myself, it’s literally as if I’m approaching this for the first time… and I’m quite frankly having to tear down as much as I build.

First thought: the gospel really is revolutionary.  I never realized how revolutionary, til now.  I was so familiar and comfortable with things which, when I look at them now, absolutely blow me away.  God becoming flesh is hard enough to reconcile in my head — but God coming humbly as the baby of a peasant girl?  God, vulnerable?  God, unimpressed by religious rule-keeping but drawn to simple faith and honest hearts?  God, reaching out for the outsiders, the rejected, the poor, the sick, the addicted, the lonely? 

Second thought: I’m not sure the Jesus I was taught about as a kid and the Jesus I now read about in the gospels would know each other.  They have vastly different preferences and concerns.  Jesus Number One really really is impressed by looking good on the outside, by the pious and powerful, those who have their shit together and show it.  (Although he would never use such a term — that’s just me).  He only hears long prayers with big pretentious religious words.  Jesus One gets nervous if you ever hang out with people who don’t know him.  They probably sin regularly, and then you’ll end up sinning.  And if there’s anything Jesus One hates, it’s having to forgive even more sin.  (Jesus One also hates Democrats, outspoken women and alcohol of any kind).

I spent many nights growing up apologizing profusely to Jesus One, because I had the distinct impression that he was pissed off at me, or at the very least, hugely (and yet, justifiably) disappointed in me.

The only reason that I figure I stayed, rather than turning my back completely on faith, is that just enough of the real Jesus got through to me that it was worth continuing to search for him.  Or, more honestly, for some reason he held on to me when I was just too heart-sick to even search anymore.

These next few entries are going to be focused on what I’m learning about the real Jesus based on simple, bare-bones reading of the scriptures.  To the spiritually educated and astute, this will undoubtedly be elementary, and it probably borders on downright embarrassing that I’m just now starting to wrap my head around this.  I don’t care.  I said not too long ago that I wanted the real true guts of the gospel or nothing at all… well, now I’m digging in.  If Jesus One is all there is, then I might as well move on and find something more fulfilling to devote my life to than a bunch of I’m sorry’s.  If the Bible reveals something more, someOne more, then it changes everything.  Everything.

Thanks to my small group who, in taking the Word and making it everyday conversation, made me hungry to meet God all over again.         

heart is where the home is

I am thankful for the raw & heartfelt responses I received a few posts ago.  I’m warmed to the core by the knowledge that I’m not alone — that others have walked or are walking through similar things, and haven’t given up on a life of faith and Christ-following… at least not completely, and not for forever. 

Perhaps more than anything else, this proves to me the beauty and truth and power of the gospel… that despite our distrust, despite our woundedness, our hearts are continually pulled toward what is real.  Even through the muck of what is false.

I hope to continue this conversation over time.  Thank you for blessing me, for meeting me here.

—————————————————————————————————

I long, as does every human being, to be at home wherever I find myself.  –Maya Angelou

I am about to move again.  For the twelfth time since I was eighteen.  For the twelfth time in seven years.

Somewhere at a computer in a home office less than five miles from here, my poor dad is shaking his head.  No one needs to remind him of the Move Count.  He also needs no help recalling how many of my apartments and dorms were up at least one flight of stairs: ten.  He remains ever-bitter over my casual substitute of the term couch for hide-a-bed (apparently a hide-a-bed weighs slightly more than a couch.  I wouldn’t know, never having carried a hide-a-bed up a flight of stairs).

The rooms that have housed me for the past year and a half have now become something rather sad.  There’s a quiet melancholy settling in, as each day the walls grow barer and the boxes pile higher in my disheveled living room.  There’s precious little evidence I still live here, other than the too-typical bits of clutter, betraying my presence.  My books and music were among the first things to be tucked away (unwise, as there will always be reason to pull out that book I’m craving from the bottom box).  Amanda has moved (mostly) and the school year has begun.  Her sweet and affectionate presence is deeply missed, and although there’s far less pink, there’s far less joy here too.

As I pack, the old ache begins to make itself felt.  The old pang of longing… for a place where I don’t keep my moving boxes til next year to save myself the trouble.  For walls that I can punch as many nail-holes in as I please.  For an address that’s current long enough to use at least a quarter of a roll of those stupid return address labels I ordered…

I ache for home.  For cozy.  For settled.  I think I’ve been searching for it for most of my twenties, but it stubbornly remains just out of reach.

This pang extends far beyond wishing I didn’t have to fill out a change-of-address form every year or so.  I wish sometimes that faith made as much certain sense as it did when I was younger.  I miss the safety and comfort I used to know when I knew it all.  I selfishly wish that dear friends would never have to move too far away for an impromptu night of bad chinese and Alias, or sushi and soccer.  I wish my heart didn’t jump straight to what will inevitably become a goodbye when I catch that first meaningful glance.  I wish I could hit pause; that I could squeeze a few more minutes of wonder out of that instant between the last pink sky and evening’s first star.

But I can’t hit pause, hold someone for longer than they’re able to stay, or enjoy any one moment for more than a moment’s time; no 30-year mortgage can cure that.  I suspect this desire to hang on tight hangs on to us whether we’re twenty-five or seventy-five.  As human beings with numbered days, change is our only sure thing, and no walls can insulate us against the chilly autumnal winds.

CS Lewis seemed to think that home is somewhere else, and that life is a wandering toward finding it; the longing is only a natural consequence.  I think he’s right, but at the same moment of longing I’m also finding that life is gracious and offers me a few glimpses of home and of love and of permanence. 

Anytime I’m with Mom, Dad, Kevo or Grandma, I’m warm and safe in the laughter and love of home.  It’s a given.

When I’m on the phone with Julie, when the words flow easy and I find that distance has no power to distance us, I glimpse the deep kinship of home.

At Starbucks with my friend and pastor, sincerely listened to as I stumble through my frustrations  and breakthroughs, I sense the acceptance and invitation of home.

When I hear and understand the words of Jesus and begin to comprehend his heart for me and his grace toward me, a sinner and an outcast, I am home in a way that defies words, so I won’t attempt it.  I’m simply home.

The older I get, the more times I pack those boxes, the more I realize: Home is not where I pay rent or where I crash exhausted at the end of the day.  I carry home (or the best glimpses life can offer) with me, wherever I go.

My heart is where my home is.

untitled

you’ll either get this, or you won’t… but I need to process for a bit, and lucky you, you get to go along for the ride.  if you do get this you’ve probably been there or perhaps are walking there now… please take to heart the reminder that you are not alone.

***

I walked into a meeting of church “leaders” yesterday.  Interesting, given the fact that I hadn’t darkened their door more than two times in as many months.  At least.  This may be a generous estimate.

I received the invitation by email — past, current and future leaders all asked to be a part.  I asked Dan if he really meant that bit about past leaders, and his response was, “Past leader?  Leaders don’t actually get permission to shed leadership talent: it sticks to you.  See you Saturday!”

I doubt he figured I’d show — I was more surprised myself when I got up early on Saturday and walked in.  What I was doing there, I couldn’t really tell you, except this: I had a sharp-as-nails deep-down gut-twisting feeling that I was either going to jump on board, or I was never going to come again.  I’m not sure which I was more afraid of.  It ended up being very good, and I’ll stick around, but there was a definite reason for the feeling of “this is a huge moment.”

I felt so awkward and out of place.  I didn’t belong there, and knew it.  Smiles that usually flit across my face with no hesitation were hard to come by this morning, as I struggled to maintain a defense.  Every independent notion was dead as I quickly made my way over to my parents and took a seat, with a sigh of relief.

Why the awkwardness?  Why the pain, over a simple meeting?  Why on earth do I avoid church gatherings like the plague?  Why has the Sunday School poster child suddenly found herself struggling to adopt the party line?

These things are hard to stuff into words.   

I’m so used to communing with God through “church”.  Through singing the songs.  Through the messages.  Through the groups.  Through involvement and service.  Not often on my own, except for brief glimpses — small “coincidences”, reading a portion of a book, a good conversation — which you typically end up reading about because I find it so meaningful.

After my internship ended, “church” began to feel very foreign to me.  I know it was more me distancing myself than it was anyone pushing me away… but I just no longer felt like I fit.  I could sing the songs and talk the talk like the best of them… but there was a rawness, an openness and an honesty that was missing in it for me.  My gifts would make it very easy to continue the “ministry” pattern I’ve lived since I was young… easy with the exception of the deep down feeling I had that there was simply something absent.  Add to that the disappointment in how our internship fizzled out of existence…  It wasn’t anyone’s fault really, but it left a mark.  I built up walls.

Once church begins to feel foreign, it doesn’t take long for God to begin to feel far away as well.  And He has. Again, I know it’s me pulling away… me being frustrated at His timing, me being stubborn and wanting to do things my way… me tired of being disappointed, despite my efforts…

The hard part for me is that I’m so used to communicating with God through church — and feeling His approval through what I did there — that now that sitting in church felt a lot like sitting in advanced French class (I never took French), now that the way I was accustomed to using my gifts seemed utterly irrelevant… the Me-and-God stuff seemed strange and awkward too. 

My Christianity feels clumsy.  I feel clumsy.  I got away from hearing language unique to the faith-world, and some of it — the jargon, the programming, the BIG VISION — doesn’t really grab me and pin me like it once did, because some of it – when I’m honest – doesn’t make sense anymore.  Some of it never really did; I was just used to hearing it, and nodding my yes.  Repeating the same old worn-out churchy phrases frustrates me as much as ever, whether they be old-Christianese phrases or new, hipper, more-cutting-edge ones.  I hear things like an outsider because, at the moment, I feel like one.   The gospel rings out loud and true, but the rest of it… well, it’s French. 

As much as it scares the proverbial shit out of me, I’m finding that I want the real honest raw guts of the gospel, or nothing.  I have little use for the rest of it.

I don’t know the right words to say anymore, I don’t know the right way to act, and as much as I’m scared that I won’t be able to get back to the way it was, I think I’m more scared that I will.  I don’t know what on earth to do with myself; there’s a duality — a feeling like I should be there – I should be in church - coupled with feeling like I have no business walking through the doors. 

It’s like I dress up all my doubt in faith-clothes for an hour or so. 

I still feel naked and exposed.

People talk so confidently and comfortably about God, as if they had breakfast with Him this morning.  And then there’s me.  Sitting there embarrassed because I can’t find the right words to say, yet not wanting to relapse into singing words that mean not a wit to either of us.  It is utterly painful.

I have no idea if any of this makes sense or not, so at the risk of spinning more obscurity and nonsense, I’ll hit pause.

That’s the best I can explain it, this place I find myself in.  Shrugging my shoulders with a huge “I just don’t know what to say” but hoping that God will somehow answer the questions and prayers I don’t know how to articulate.  I think I’ll keep on showing up in the meantime, even though I know I’m a fraud and I’m fairly certain it’s obvious… but I can hope at least that God’ll know I’m trying.

Maybe God and I can learn to talk even though I don’t know French…

walking out the door

permit me just one… and I’ll be done.

***
You know exactly what I’m talking about if you’ve ever been there.  That moment.  The one where everything has been said that needs to be said; that and probably then some.  Enough said to know it’s over, and that, in just a few moments, you’ll walk out the door different than you walked in.

In my case, in just a few moments, I’d be walking out the door with a backpack, four DVD’s (only one of them watched), and a big bag of spinach mozzarella ravioli from Costco that I’d used to make dinner for him just last week.  (I grabbed it from the freezer, partially out of spite.  Go ahead, break my heart; but I’ll be damned if you get my Costco ravioli).

You know it’s coming, the closing of the door behind you.  You can feel it nearing with each pound of your heart. 

But for that moment, you just.  Can’t.  Move.

It’s suffocating, that moment there in-between the words spoken and the courage to walk out the front door.  You know now that you can’t be with the one sitting with you on the other end of the couch/bed/deck step/name your place.  But as humiliating as it is, to be sitting there, continuing to share that space although your presence there is neither desired nor warranted, it’s easier to bear than walking out into the darkness alone, knowing you’ll never be back — that you’ll never again share this space, painful and silent as it has now become.

Even if you know it’s not right.  Which I’d sensed and maybe even known (deep-down in the non-obvious way that’s perfectly clear only in hindsight) for a few weeks.

(I said once that nausea knew my relationships better than I did — and it’s true.  It’s simple fact: when I’m going to get broken up with, I have a very peculiar nausea for four to six hours beforehand.  You’d think that if I was given a sixth sense of sorts, it could at least be useful for something.  Like when animals get all crazy before an earthquake.  Or when someone knows to buy a lotto ticket.  You know, something useful. 

Me?  No way.  I feel pukey just before getting dumped.  It doesn’t keep me from mortal danger.  It doesn’t provide me the financial means to buy my own island.  It simply makes me feel like crap about five hours earlier than I have to.  Really.  Where’s the fun in that?)

The moment, dreaded as it is, does eventually arrive when you close that door behind you.  I wanted to slam it.  I desperately wanted to leave angry for once, rather that saying all sorts of pretty things about how I understand, even though I’m hurt, etc. etc. etc. 

I wanted to walk out and slam the door.  But I couldn’t find my flip-flops.  Anywhere.  This did nothing for my exit.  He then found them for me and gently brought them to me, which made me angrier.  (I could’ve strangled him).  He quietly asked me if I wanted my movies.  (I went for the freezer).

Then I caught the pained look of I-have-no-idea-what-to-do-but-I-hate-that-I’ve-hurt-you on his face, and, just like I always end up doing, I softened somewhat.  When I walked out into the stillness of the cool clear night a little while later, I shut the door softly behind me.

And realized that despite my hesitance to leave, you couldn’t have kept me on that couch for anything.

It’s so hard to trade what is for what could possibly be.  Which is why we sit curled up on couches, or linger awkwardly in the passenger seat of a car, or stand there like an idiot in the kitchen, not knowing what to say.  It’s scary.  Even if what we have in our hands isn’t what we really need or even what we know we want deep-down… we can’t bring ourselves to unpry our tightly wound fingers from our prize.  Even if I know I’d rather be single and not care if the phone ever rang than be supposedly happy and wait for one that doesn’t… yeah.  Can’t.  Move.

My hand always has to be forced.

But I found that as I walked to my car that night and drove home along quiet streets, what was had already begun to let go, even as the tears streamed down my cheeks.  I began to hope again, just a little bit, not for just anything, not for just anyone, but for what my heart has always hoped could possibly be.

Someday I won’t have to move.  Or walk out the door.  Cool thought.

***

Of course it was not a fun night, but a few days later, I’m doing great.  Work is awesome, and I am happy to throw myself into it for the time being.  We’ll both be just fine.

…and life itself is grace

If you were aware of how precious [today] is, you could barely stand to live through it.  Unless you are aware of how precious it is, you can hardly be said to be living at all.

- Frederick Buechner

Life and living have been very much on my mind of late. Right now, Melissa is fighting bravely and beautifully in a small room across the water. Prayer is constant, spoken and silent – but it’s not really as if I have a choice. Often (I am ashamed to admit this) my promised prayers go forgotten, but she is on my heart in every quiet moment.

It was this time a year ago that my grandpa died.

My mind is tired and my heart is a little raw, to tell the truth.

Last night, I hit pause and let myself be for a moment.

I turned the stereo on low and walked out on to the deck, breathing deep of the still-warm night air. Leaning against the railing, I stared out through the trees at the Brothers, watching in reverent silence as the sun sank beyond them, turning all the sky rosy there in that fleeting moment just between daytime and dark. I just stood there for a few, letting myself soak in what I miss most days. Glancing down at my too-often-neglected flower pots, I discovered with absolute joy that my marigolds are not only not-dead, but about to bloom again. (This is a miracle in and of itself).

Ran inside right quick – water for the flowers, a Killian’s for me.

Threw my bare feet up on the table outside, leaned my head back on my plastic chair, and closed my eyes. I listened. I relaxed as my fan droned on in front of the screen door. Not too far away, a bird was singing the last of its song for the evening. Heard a woman laughing loud out in the parking lot. I let my eyes drift back to the mountains again, purple now. Then – a flash of white, and a group of happy, giggling voices belting out Happy birthday to you… happy birthday to you… from the apartment below. A few more flashes of light, and cheers and applause as the candles were, from what I could tell, successfully blown out on the first try. Wish big, girl.

Took my last sip just as the first of the stars were coming out.

For me, to be alive is to always be aching just a little. (Sometimes, in weeks like this one, a lot). But there are good aches as well as painful ones. Watching the day come to an end. Singing in a hospital room. Laughing with a friend, on the phone long-distance. Smiling for no reason. Having your hand held. Being held.

In all of these moments, I sense God up close.

This is the life I get to live. Even though it means deep sorrow as well as deep joy, I wouldn’t trade it. Not a moment of it.

Live your lives today, friends.  You only get once.

the knife

I write much of this in response to the following, which I received a few days ago:

Kind of disapointed that you’d post this on the world wide web for everyone to read. This woman obviously has some mental issues and I’m sure it would humiliate her to know that you posted her embarrassing incident on the internet. I guess the sermon that night wasn’t on forgiveness, or grace. Tell me, was it on reaching hard for attention?

I know that I was being baited here, but I can’t help it.  I’ll bite.

[Please know, everyone, that I wouldn't post anything here that would ever intentionally hurt anyone.  Only one person from this particular church reads my ramblings here, and he watched the whole thing happen anyway. 

The way I deal with the crazy happenings in my life is to laugh about them.  People and life and situations in general are pretty stinkin' funny if you stop to think about it.  This story, although it was scary when it happened, quickly turned funny.  So I shared it in a medium where the story can be, with no risk at all to the woman involved, as she is lost in complete anonymity.  This has nothing to do with lack of forgiveness -- I harbor no resentment toward this woman and hope she gets help, as embarrassment will cease to be the biggest of her worries if she continues to be violent in public.]

OK enough trying to convince you folks that I’m not actually a terrible person.  The bigger issue here, and the one I really want to address, is this: why is it that the most harsh criticism a follower of Christ can expect is from another follower of Christ?

I don’t know Carl at all.  Maybe he was having a bad day.  Maybe he knows someone who struggles with mental illness and this is a sensitive subject for him.  I’ll give him the benefit of the doubt, and avoid judgments as to Carl as a person.  But I do want to talk about sentiments like the ones he shared — because I think at some point or another we’ve all been on the receiving end of — and when we’re honest, spoken — similar things.

You want to know the main reason I very nearly left the Church?  Pretty simple.  I got tired of getting knifed.  Luckily my memories of those years are starting to fade, and I’ve forgotten many of the things that were said to me during my formative years.  But they left marks all the same.  The scars show up now as little mental tics, where I have to work it all out in my mind how I’ll come across if I say or do such and such a thing (Will this person think I’m _____________?), where I have to walk through my fear that someone will judge me as unworthy all over again.  It takes all I am to leave myself unguarded.

What does it look like to get knifed?  Most often it involves “constructive criticism” that leaves you feeling torn apart inside… from a person who has no right or permission to give it.  You know.  You’ve been there.  Someone you barely know, who barely knows you, sits you down to tell you “what’s on their heart.”  If it’s a particularly skilled person, they’ll play the God card in there too.  So now, both God and this person feel you’ve blown it big-time.

Many people who leave the church are simply tired of getting ripped apart by other Christians who have such a keen interest in removing that plank in your eye that they don’t care how much of you they carve out along with it.  These folks didn’t have a problem with Jesus.  They had a problem with people who were so sure they represented him.  His reps may have even been right sometimes — but they were so damn mean about it that it sure felt wrong.

Call me a wimp, call me super sensitive, whatever — but is it really so impossible to criticize or disagree with someone without going for the jugular?  Why are we so ungracious in the name of Grace?  Why do I get the feeling sometimes that other Christians are the least likely to be for me; as if, the more they point out my flaws, the less God will notice their own?

Kids, that last sentence stung, even though it was from a complete stranger who, I’m certain, would probably not say something like that were he to know me better.  Grace and forgiveness are huge to me; it hurt to be accused of a lack of it, especially in a situation that genuinely stretched me.  And there’s not a very long span of time that goes by that I don’t fight insecurity regarding my self-centered nature.  I know this is a weak spot already, even without a stranger telling me so.  I mean, geez — I’m a writer and a musician — what a lethal combo. 

I’d still rather be self-centered than self-righteous, however.

Here’s the point of this, admittedly my worst post ever: there’s a fairly decent-sized list of folks who could have shared the above feeling with me, and I would have taken it just fine.  Of course, they would have left off that last sentence, and simply shared how they felt without telling me who I am.  But they even could have told me that it didn’t sound very gracious, and I would have been ok.  Want to know why?  Because they use their knife skillfully – for my benefit and not my harm – and they have permission to go in there in the first place.  Plus, they probably would have emailed me about it.

Jeanne Mayo shared a sermon once about wineskins.  She educated us on the entire process.  All the flesh has to be removed from the wineskin, or else the wine will take on the flavor of the flesh rather than retaining its own.  One step in the process involves a very fine, very sharp knife which is used to remove any small pieces of the flesh that remain.  It does its work very efficiently, but absolutely must be in skilled hands — rough or unsteady hands will puncture the wineskin and it will become useless.

She said two things:  1.  Give people permission to use the knife in your life – to call you on the areas of your life that still look more like flesh than wine.  Tell them they have that right; ask for it, demand it of them.  But only give this sharpest of knives to those you can trust, because harsh words of criticism can wound deeply and sometimes cause damage that’s near-impossible to repair. 

2.  If you’re not sure whether or not you hold the knife in someone’s life, and you feel the need to say something – ASK THEM FOR THEIR PERMISSION FIRST.  If you have the right, share your heart, after you’ve examined it.  If you don’t, keep your trap shut.  They – not you – determine whether or not you speak.  Very unpopular in our culture, but we’d have a whole lot less walking wounded if it were more common.

This might sound ridiculous, but I’ve done it.  I’ve asked for permission.  It’s pretty simple.  “Am I someone who has the right to speak into your life?”  Easy enough.  Lets them know that I am more concerned about them than I am about being right, or even having a say.  And it lets me know whether or not to speak.  It’s a big deal, and not to be taken lightly.  First, I’ve never had a person say no (not that I attempt this very often anyway)… and they know that I speak because I genuinely care, and not because I’m trying to out-spiritual them.

I’m not saying Carl should have asked my permission before disagreeing with me.  He needs no special okay from me to do so.  But he could have left the personal to those who actually know me personally, and who have the right – and the skill – to carve in a way that leaves me better rather than bleeding.

Just some thoughts here on a rainy Saturday morning.  Take ‘em or leave ‘em.

purple heart

OK.  I am finally ready to tell my tale.  This is, for the record, my BEST STORY EVER.  I’ve been telling it to everyone, and they agree.  (I am the hit of every party.  Every social gathering needs a story like this one… it’s a service I’m now happy to be able to provide).  Given the circumstances, I think I earned this puppy.

This past Sunday, July 3rd, 2005, shall forever be known as The Day I Got Attacked By A Paranoid Schizophrenic (At Church).  Take, that, JLP!

No, I am not kidding.  Torch can vouch for me – he witnessed the events unfold in all their glory.

Our scene: the worship band at good ol’ First Pres is running through its song list — I’m singing and playing keys.  (If I remember correctly, we were in the middle of Wonderful Maker).

Out of the corner of my eye, I notice mini candy bars whizzing by and landing on stage.  I look up, and a fifty-something woman is throwing them at us.  I chuckle to myself, thinking, slightly odd way to joke around with us, but no matter.  However, after a few chocolates hit me, I realized that she was not throwing Mr. Goodbar and Krackel and Hershey’s Special Dark at US, but at ME.

(By way of explanation, no, she did not bring her own mini-candy-bar arsenal.  The first few rows of seats in the community center have candy placed on them, to entice reluctant-front-row-sitters to sit close.  We are currently re-thinking the wisdom of leaving projectile weapons just lying there).

I didn’t have much time to reflect on this, however, because the lady, in a complete state of agitation, ran up to my keyboard, and began yelling the following (and pointing, just in case it wasn’t completely clear who she was referring to): “Adulteress!  Fornicator!  Don’t you laugh at me!  He’s MY husband!  You don’t deserve to be on this stage, you dirty whore!” at which point she begins trying to pull me off the platform.

(“MY husband” was an old dude playing percussion behind me on the platform.  He has long white hair and a long white beard — a true vintage hippie.  No offense to him, but he was completely safe from my tendencies toward foul temptressing).

She accused me of locking her out of the community center so I could bend over in front of her husband, show him my breasts, etc. etc. etc.  (One of the doors sticks.  Out of the corner of my eye, while we were playing, I had noticed her trying to get in, and having to come through the other set of double doors right next to the one she had tried). 

Adulteress and Fornicator were pretty much the terms of choice, however.  There were twenty or thirty people around, hearing this.  It was nice.

I would like to tell you that I was really tough about the whole thing, but as I was sitting there at my keyboard (I had to sit because of the bum knee) my eyes filled up with alligator tears and I just shook my head, saying “No… no…”

I am so not tough.  I am disappointed.

Like I said, she was grabbing me, trying to pull me down off the platform, which scared me a lot given that if my knee bends the wrong way it sort of feels like someone is snapping my leg in two.  I pulled my arm away, and got up, walking away from her to the other side of the stage.  I sat down for a second and the other girl singing with me came up and put her arms around me, but when the tirade continued, I got up and tried to leave.  At this point, Crazy ran up behind me and hit me as hard as she could in the back.  I had been surprised before, but now… this?  “OW!!  God!”

Everyone was sort of deer-caught-in-headlights… the whole thing happened pretty quickly… but they finally restrained her right after she hit me.  I didn’t stick around to see more… I headed out, crying and shaking, and hid in a corner as they physically removed her from the building.  (Matt later told me that at this point, he and everyone else in the place were all adulterers).

This, fifteen minutes before church begins.  In a service where I’m supposed to be singing a very challenging song the speaking pastor had requested (I’d been working on it for two or three weeks) and sharing a testimony right beforehand to introduce it.

Someone had called the police, so I had to give a statement about five minutes before the service began.  They had caught up with her about three blocks down the road, and had her in custody, so at least I didn’t have to really worry that she’d be back in to rid the church of the Adulteress or anything.  I didn’t press charges, I didn’t feel like making things worse (plus, I just didn’t feel like taking the time to deal with it.  I just wanted a few minutes to calm down so I could actually do what I’d traveled an hour and a half to do).

This might sound dumb — she was just a fifty-ish lady, and were it not for my leg and complete lack of ninja skills, I could have taken her — but I’ve never been so scared by a person in my life.

Again, no.  Not kidding.

Um, I felt a little conspicuous at this point.  (You tend to feel this way when you’ve been publicly called out as a whore).  But people were really kind.  Lots of people who had seen it came up to give me a hug… they all felt so badly about what had happened.  And, when it came time to sing, I’m happy to say that I think I pulled it together pretty well.  I don’t think anyone who didn’t already know what had happened would have been able to guess. 

In a way, what happened was almost a good thing, because it put me COMPLETELY in a place where I was vulnerable, and I knew it, and I really needed God’s grace to help me through that moment, and He knew it.  Ministry is its sweetest when we know we don’t have it in us, and God says, “Yeah, I know, let Me.”  The whole day was a sweet moment.

When I returned for the night service (watching my back like crazy), Matt informed me that he had just been told that she is a diagnosed paranoid schizophrenic who refuses her medication, and who has a tendency to fixate on one younger woman she’s sure is after her husband.

My response was thus: “Matt…?  DUH.”  He laughed.

So, I’ve been unofficially awarded the Purple Heart from the worship team at FP.  We’re considering options such as putting the drum shield in front of my keyboard… me wearing a kevlar vest, etc.  (On a serious note, that couple will not be back, so although I’ll have to be cautious, I think I’m ok).  And, other than people (my 80-year-old Grandma, my parents, various pastors) calling me an adulterous hussy every now and then, all has returned pretty much to normal. 

I wish I had a moral for this story, but the only one that’s coming to mind is “So make sure you bring your pepper spray to church, because you just never know…” 

God, Pyro

…I’m burnin’

Yeah I’m burnin’

And I know I’m gonna blister in these flames

So I’ll stay here

‘Til this smoke clears

And I’ll find You in the ashes that remain…

-Nichole Nordeman

———————————

I haven’t yet reached the point where I trust God with matches.

He has a tendency, from what I understand of him, to reduce things to ashes before he begins his work.  They seem to be his favorite medium.

There are times when I can be spiritual enough to almost see the point.  Especially if it is someone else’s story.  They’re sifting through the smoldering rubble that was once their family/body/relationship/dream/you-name-it; nothing remains untouched by the smoke and flame. 

The look in their eyes is the worst.  Disbelief.  Confusion.  Worst of all is the simple woundedness of it all: Why does it have to hurt this bad?

And although I hurt too, although there’s a piece of me that breaks right along with them — well, it ain’t my house that burned down.  It’s a little easier for me to be the optimist.  Words like “deepening character” and “that will be used someday” and “something better will come” flit across my brain.  Sometimes they fly right out of my mouth.  (Which is ok, when they’re not spoken frivolously.  When spoken to those we love, words of hope that seem completely ridiculous are often words of help nonetheless).

This perspective is a little harder to come by when it’s my life that’s become a merry bonfire.  It’s agonizing, watching the flames shoot up around what I hold most precious.  There’s an anxiety, a fear along with: Just how much is gonna burn before this thing is done?  How much will I lose here?

I’ve seen the look in the eyes of those who’ve experienced total loss.  I’ve watched a son at a father’s funeral, three weeks before his wedding.  I watched a bride grieve the loss of her husband of a month.  I’ve seen a godly wife of thirty years watch her husband walk out the door, with younger company.  I watched a mom (my age) of three nearly lose her life to cancer.  I’ve seen it.  And I don’t want to be them.  I want to somehow get through life unscathed.  I like my life unscathed.  I like me without the questions, without the confusion, without the scars. 

I used to think I didn’t have a testimony.  Now I realize I really don’t want one.

I experienced this fear not too long ago, during ER Trip #1.  It was early morning, and I was drinking a mocha with my dad in silence, flipping through a Reader’s Digest and watching my mom uncomfortably try to sleep.  On the outside, I was nonchalant, but I was scared out of my mind.  Felt like maybe my number was up.  It was my turn.  And despite my hopeful words about how much good can come from tough times… for the first time I felt that if the fire touched a certain part of my life, there was a good chance my faith would go up in flame right along with it.  I don’t think I’ve ever felt that way before.

Another ER visit, some doctor’s appointments, and some tests later, I’m still worried, but the deep fear has receded, and I think things will eventually be ok.

To be truthful though, I remain shaken.  I realized, maybe for the first time truly, that ashes come to us all.  Different details, different fires, different kinds of loss.  (I’m finding that sometimes hearts and vocational aspirations get tossed on the barbie as well).  But they come to each of us.  And there’s no guarantee that the one thing you can’t live without isn’t the very thing you’ll lose. 

My friends that walked through the fire — they are scarred, but God did bring beauty out of their pain.  He did.  I watched that, too.  Would they change it if they could?  Probably.  But there also seems to be a steadiness about them when it’s all over.  They made it through the fire, and now there’s very little that scares them.  (Or at least that’s how it seems to me).

I just wish I felt that strength now, pre-burn.  I wish I had some inner reserve of faith that said: no matter what, God, you and me.  I don’t.

And the ashes will come.  Now, later, a bit now, a bit later, they are one of life’s few guarantees.  I don’t inspire myself overly much.  I’m clinging instead to hope that God’s no matter what, Stace, you and me will be enough to hang on to me, ashes and all; that his grace, his firm hold on me will be the thing that remains when all is said and done. 

This will be the beauty God brings from my ashes.

Eventually.

let it be

Hi friends. Been a while.

I needed it. Sometimes I just need a while to struggle and wrestle and let things simmer without attempting to make it useful… without extracting a contrived moral from the story before its time. Sometimes the chaos just needs to be chaos for a while, with no need to know or even attempt to guess how far I am from some semblance of clarity or that promised light at the end of the tunnel.

When I began writing, I was ecstatic to discover an awareness that had long been lying dormant… thoughts and impressions that had lacked any meaningful expression up until that night last July when I found myself typing and unable to stop. Something profound changed in me. Rather than my days rushing along in a never-ending stream of indiscernible hours, my days became filled with marked meaning-laden moments. Or, to be more truthful, I became present to the moments that filled my days. I gained the ability to hit the pause button on my life; to stop and look around once in a while. I found myself no longer merely existing; I found myself living. Listening. Seeing. Feeling (deeply… and for the first time, okay with allowing myself that freedom).

On the good days, this newfound awareness serves me quite well. I drink it up. I thank God. I have plenty of happy things to say.

On the bad days (or bad weeks)… it’s acutely painful. Can I just say that? I don’t like writing about those days. And when I do, I pressure myself to wrap it all up in a nice pretty package of “but I’m learning some valuable lesson.” Then, I typically tie it up with a bow of “but I know God will work it out.” Heaven forbid I leave it messy; unfinished; out of the box.

Chaos doesn’t wrap up well.

But on and on I like to go, cutting even, straight lines on pretty paper and curling twirls of bright ribbon… furiously attempting to make life neat and well-ordered and lovely, at least on the outside. Yeah, I’m frustrated, yeah, I wonder why things don’t seem to be working out… but I’m nothing – of no value whatsoever – if I’m not inspiring and hope-filled, right?

I ran out of inspiring about three weeks ago. To quote a favorite movie, I had lost the ability to bullshit. I’m sure I erred a little too much on the side of wallowing. I cried. I complained. I got angry. I almost scared myself a little. I said some things to God that were probably a little impertinent, given that, well, he’s God, for God’s sake, and I’m me, and we both know the track records of who’s been right more often. But at least, for once, I wasn’t attempting to say it was alright when it really wasn’t yet. It was ugly, but at least it was real.

And when I came to the end of (or at least a significant pause in) my tirade this weekend, I found God there still. (That’s not an attempt at a pretty bow; it’s just a fact).

He used several things this weekend away to remind me, among other things, to get my grubby hands off his projects; there will be no need for pretty packaging when he’s done. There’s timing at work here, and I’m typically so in a hurry to see the end product, the moral, the lesson, the gift, that I’m forever missing the process.

(I think, although I can’t be sure, that he may have also been saying that I would probably do well to lay off the pointed sarcastic comments aimed heavenward and attempt a little more patience. He said this more gently than we both knew I deserved).

I can stop pushing for a quick resolution… and yet, I can still live within that chaos in faith that there will someday be beauty wrought from it. I don’t have to be bitter and depress-o to be authentic. Neither do I have to have a Full House-ish resolution to every daily struggle in order to be a woman of faith.

It’s weird. In refusing to gloss over what’s happening in my life with some flippant Christian cliche, I found them all more true than ever.

Dang it.