Sometimes my to do list is my best friend. It gives me structure and goals to reach for. It fills my time and helps me feel like I have something small to hold on to and control when so many other things seem big and overwhelming. Crossing things off of my list brings me comfort. It makes breathing seem easier. I like structure. I like schedule. I like routine and I like to do lists.
I like all of those things until I don't. Most times they are life giving. Most times they give me fuel. Most days lists and schedules make me excited and happy to do the things the I need to do, but sometimes I feel like I'm being suffocated. Sometimes I hate my lists and schedules and reminders. Sometimes I just want to run and hide from my lists and my schedule. I want to have days where I do what I want to do when I want to do it just because I want to. Some days I want to chuck the schedule and eat lunch for 2 hours. I want to go to bed at 3:00 am because I'm having a conversation that runs into the early morning. I want to do my work, but maybe not on the 9-5 schedule that I am on, even though most days I am thankful for the boundaries that 9-5 affords me.
Most days I love my schedule. Most days I cling to it for dear life. But some days every now and then I hate it. Don't ask me how I can absolutely love and absolutely despise the same exact thing. John Eldredge might tell you it's because I'm a woman. The Myers Briggs test might tell you it's because I'm an INFP. If you know me you know I am not fond of those answers; I think it's much more simple than that.
I think it has to do with being human, something to do with my soul's cry for forever.
Maybe. Maybe not.
I think we were all born with longings in our hearts. I long for comfort and peace and joy. I want to feel worthwhile, like I matter. I want to feel like dreaming isn't a dead end road. Don't we all feel those things? Don't we all long for those things to feel true in our hearts?
Maybe not everyone feels that way. But I do. And most of the time when I look at my list, it points me to eternity, it fills just a hint of my longing for true purpose and real comfort and belonging. But other times I look at my schedule and I want to cry because all I can see and all I can feel is the weight of a to do list that will never be able to meet all of the needs around me. Most of the time I see the good in my schedule and structure, but every now and then I feel the absolute destitution of a to do list broken and corrupt.
I wrote the following about a month ago. I wrote it when I was having one of those days where I hate a lot of things that I usually love. I had just started a new job and I was feeling overwhelmed.
"It feels a little bit like I can’t breathe right now. People talk all the time about there not being enough hours in the day but I’ve never understood that feeling exactly the way that I do right now. I want to do this work. I want to be in this setting, with these clients, these people, but I don’t want to feel like I’m drowning. I don’t want to feel like I can’t breathe. I don’t want to feel like I am sinking and pulling everyone around me down with me. I want to feel like I am doing something good. I want to feel like I am doing more good than bad. I want to feel like I am doing something that matters. Right now I feel shell shocked. I can’t catch up. I can’t do it. There is too much for me to learn, too many people for me to please, too many clients for me to serve. There are too many needs and it’s hard because all of the needs are real and they are all big and they are all pressing right this very second.
Even taking the time to prioritize all the needs feels like I am wasting time that I could be using to do something else vitally important. And then there is me. I want to have a life. I want to know myself outside of this place and I want to be known outside of this place. I want to feel full and happy and like I belong here. I want to feel full and more than that I want to actually be full. I want those things to be true, because I am 100% certain that I am a better person when those things are true. I am more like I was created to be when I have a life that is balanced. I am better able to help serve these people when I am full. I am getting to the end of my fuel tank and I need to be filled.
Lord, help me to be full, because I feel empty and I cannot do this on empty. Help me to be full because without your help I will try and try and try to fill myself up with fuel that wasn't ever meant to sustain me. It won’t work. I want this to be a place where I shine, but I can’t shine on my own. I am struggling to see my worth. I am struggling to see the things that I do well. I am struggling to remember why I am here and how I got here and who you say I am. Help me to remember, because I will crash and burn without that reminder.
Every day I want to know that I can get out of bed because you are here and you are alive and you will give to me all that I need for every second of every moment. Help me to live as if I actually believed that. Help me to live as if I actually knew how much hope I have. Give me hope. Fill me with hope every morning, and then again at lunch when I have forgotten and then again after work when I just want to cry. Remind me of your hope, because I so often forget. Fill me with your hope. Fill me with your love. Fill me with your mercy and grace. Fill me with your story all day, every day, because I am not going to fill myself with it. Left to my own devices I get to this place where I feel like I cannot breathe and the walls are caving in around me and I will be crushed.
If I have to drown, Lord, may it be in your ocean of grace. If I have to be crushed, Lord, may it be by the weight of your love for me. If you must break me, God, make it for something worthwhile. I love it here. I love these people. I love this place. Remind me why I can be here. Remind me why I can be overworked and underpaid. Remind me why it’s ok that I do not have enough hours in the day. Tell me again who it is that I answer to. Give me strength to face the misery that is painted on so many of our client’s faces. Give me wisdom to speak your words of love. Give me power to proclaim the hope that you have called me to. Give me grace upon grace upon grace upon grace, because I am going to fail. A lot. Remind me why it is ok to fail. Help me to extend to others the same grace that I ask for you to extend to me. I miss you. I love you. Help me."
I need to be reminded so often. I need to look for hope even when all I feel is the weight of pain, the stress of brokenness, the anxiety of a life lived in between times.
Thursday, November 14, 2013
Saturday, October 26, 2013
Please let this wind blow me home.
I prayed two days ago that he would find comfort. I prayed
that he would find peace and rest. I prayed that God would give him joy, that
we might see him smile again. I prayed that he would feel loved and protected.
I prayed that God would take away his fear, his frustration, and his pain. I
prayed that he would once again know hope.
He didn’t seem to have very much rest the past few days.
Comfort seemed impossible to find. Joy, only in the moments when his eyes
caught those of his daughter or son or wife. I want him to still be here. I
want him to ask me what I thought of the latest Eagles game. I want him to
playfully roll his eyes as he realizes my “political rebellion,” has rubbed off
in subtle, small ways onto his daughter. I want to hear about the latest book
he’s been reading. I want to listen as he and Sarah debate who has the best
basketball program in the ACC. I want him to be here and I’m angry. I want him
to be here and it’s just not fair that he’s gone. I want him here. And I am
sad.
He went home to be with Jesus late last night. He left his
body and the rest of us behind and he went home. We cried and cried and cried.
Last night was by far the hardest thing I have ever had to do. To watch this
man that I love die, to look into his eyes and to know that I will never be
able to see them again, to watch as his family grieves their loss. The most
heartbreaking thing I have ever known.
I am sad for Sarah and I am sad for Wes and I am sad for
Lisa, but I am also just sad, because I love him. He made me laugh and he made
me feel like I was a part of a family that I wasn’t really a part of. He
welcomed me into his life, into his home, into his family day after day, week
after week, year after year. He gave me advice and he asked me about my life.
Sometimes he was frustrated when he tried to watch the news while Sarah, Lisa
and I talked too loudly in the kitchen. He didn’t always love when I showed up
at midnight unannounced, but I never doubted whether or not I belonged. Not one
second of doubt. Mr. Sutton has always made me feel welcome. The Suttons have
always made me feel like I was one of them. The W always made me feel like I
belonged. I can’t over emphasize how redemptive his treatment of me has been
over the past eight years.
I am thankful for him, for his life and the legacy that he
leaves behind in his beautiful children, who are honestly two of the most
incredible individuals I know. I am thankful for his words of wisdom and his
sense of humor. I am thankful for the ways that he challenged me. I am thankful
for the ways that he encouraged me. I am thankful for how much love and support
he poured into me year after year. I am thankful for the children that he
raised and the pieces of him that I see in each of them. I am thankful for the
wife that he has loved for twenty-nine years. I am thankful for how hard he
worked to take care of them. I am thankful for his family. I am thankful. And I
am sad.
He left us last night and after the initial tears, the shock
set in. Is this really happening? Can we all wake up from this nightmare now?
I will never understand. I know that. I don’t know why
children have to watch their parents die while they are still children. I don’t
know why death comes and steals our loved ones away like it does. I don’t know
why he seems to take the good dads and leave the other ones behind. I don’t
know why some people get to live and some people have to die. I don’t
understand. And I know I never will. The mystery of our Lord is not always
beautiful from where I stand. Today, it is hard. Today, not understanding makes
me angry and sad.
Today, not understanding doesn’t leave me in awe, it leaves
me in tears. And I don’t know how to correct that. I don’t know how to pretend
as if this feeling isn’t there. I don’t know how to move from anger and sadness
and pain to wonder.
And I think maybe that’s ok.
“A broken and contrite heart, Oh God, you will not despise.”
So today we will be sad that he is gone, because there is
certainly much to be sad about; there is certainly much to mourn.
Last night Sarah, Anthony and I sat together on the tiniest
sofa in the tiniest, “Serenity Room,” at Wesley Long Hospital. Sarah looked
around for a minute and finally she said, “he’s so happy now.”
We are sad, but praise the God of comfort for we can take
hold of the knowledge that he is no longer sad, he is no longer in pain, he is
no longer afraid. We are sad, because we miss him, but he is not. He is not
sad. You are right Suttontown, he is so
very happy.
I know only a portion of the peace I will one day know in
full. I know only a small amount of the rest I will one day find. I know only a
hint of true comfort and joy and love. I know bits and pieces of those things.
I have caught glimpses of the beauty we were meant for, but I feel it at the
core of my heart, this fact: he now has all of those things in full. He has joy
and rest and peace and love and beauty and God. He is free from his cancer. And
he is home.
He found comfort. He found peace and rest. God gave him joy,
and we will see him smile again. He has found love. He has found protection. He
knows no fear. He knows no frustration. He feels absolutely no pain. And he is
at the right hand of the God of hope.
He’s with Nana.
He’s with Anthony’s dad.
He’s with Ashley’s dad.
He’s with Anna’s dad.
And they are all with Jesus.
Saturday, October 12, 2013
Something changed inside me, broke wide open, all spilled out.
I went to Costa Rica for a week in August, and I’m still not
entirely sure how to talk about it. I’m not entirely sure what I want to tell
people or how I want to word what I want to tell people. Have mercy. I did my
best.
I saw evil as up close and personal as I ever have before.
The huge weight of the sex trade industry, the complete darkness surrounding
prostitution, the urgency in the faces of orphaned children, the hopelessness
of drug addiction; these things all looked me in the face and they leveled me.
I looked into the eyes of human beings that are used repeatedly night after
night and I saw deep brokenness. I saw the kind of brokenness that knocks the
air out of your lungs. I saw poverty individually on the faces of countless children,
but I also saw it in a bigger, systematic cycle. I saw women roll their eyes
when I told them that God thinks they are beautiful. I saw fear in the eyes of
a 14 year old mother. I saw so many things that filled my heart with pain and
sadness and those things made days in Costa Rica hard.
I didn’t know what to do with all of those things. I still
don’t know what to do with all of those things. The place where we were staying
had stalls in the women’s bathroom. On one of the stall doors someone had
written, “God is not based on feelings.” I read it the first day and laughed
because it was right next to some cheesy David Crowder lyric that made me roll
my eyes. But I read it again the next day.
God is not based on feelings. And then again the next day. God is not based on feelings. I read it
every day that we spent in Costa Rica, and eventually I came to feel that there
was power in that statement.
God it not based on feelings, but I sure did feel a lot of
very different, very intense, very deep feelings while I was in Costa Rica.
Joy.
I left the United States full of it. The day before we left
I had the privilege of standing next to one of my favorite people as she
married her best friend. The wedding was beautiful in every possible way. There
was so much love and laughter and so much hope. Hope for a future full of
Jesus, and hope for a life full of real love. I was and am so incredibly happy
for these friends of mine. Their wedding, their relationship, and their
marriage have all brought me so much joy.
Encouragement.
We met so many incredible people during our time in Costa
Rica. We saw so many incredible things. We spent time building each other up as
a team and we spent time in prayer for the people of Costa Rica. I felt loved.
I felt the safety and comfort that community brings.
Exhaustion.
Amber and Brandon’s wedding was beautiful and flawless and I
would do it all again in a heartbeat. The process was exhausting in the best
kind of way. Leaving the reception I felt full and peaceful but I also felt
tired. The following morning I met the rest of my Costa Rica team at the
airport and we took off running.
You can ask anyone. I was the first one to sleep every night
and the last one up every morning. I was just exhausted the entire week and I
couldn’t seem to shake it. My body was tired. My heart was tired. My mind was
tired. It seemed like every single inch of every single part of me was
desperate for fuel. I felt helplessly exhausted.
Homesick.
Upon our arrival into Costa Rica, we were greeted by a
country that looked, smelled, and tasted differently than anything I am used
to. I’ve been out of the United States before and I work with people from all
around the world. But in Costa Rica I gained a greater appreciation for how
hard it must be for someone to leave everything they know and come to a new
country, a new culture. I wasn’t uncomfortable or afraid. It wasn’t even that I
didn’t like the culture of Costa Rica. It was beautiful and hugely humbling to
see people do life so differently, and with so much beauty and grace.
It was hard for no other reason, except that I missed the
comfort and stability of my own culture. I was tired and I wanted the comfort
of home. How fortunate that nine times out of ten I have that option, that
comfort. How humbling that so many do not.
Sadness.
Most days I spent at least some amount of time with
children. We helped with a Vacation Bible School ministry. We visited several
orphanages. We met incredible women who turned their homes into safe houses for
abandoned children. We held babies and jumped rope and sang songs. We folded
laundry and cleaned tables and organized shoes. We did things that needed to be
done for these children. And I am glad we did it, I am glad that we were there,
but more than anything these places filled me with an overwhelming feeling of
sadness. Sadness for these little souls who know so strongly what it is to be
rejected. Sadness for the brokenness of so many families. Sadness for the
countless fatherless babies. I felt sadness because the kids we met were
perfect and so many of them didn’t know it.
I am an introvert except when it comes to babies and kids.
Babies and kids give me things that adults do not. I can say this now only
because I am not a parent and one day when I have kids of my own I will surely
eat my words, but I love being around kids because they fill me up and make me
laugh. They play game and sing songs and it makes my heart happy. They give
love so freely and they feel feelings really well and I love that. They are
honest in the best possible way and it is great.
It was really hard to be around so many beautiful kids in
Costa Rica that genuinely needed things that they were not getting. I felt like
they were giving me so much and there was nothing that I could give to them in
return. I couldn’t put their pieces back together. All I could do was be there
for a few days. All I could do was sing a song or play a game or fold some
clothes. I felt guilty and sad that these precious little souls were filling me
up and I had nothing to give them. I need for nothing. I felt like I was
stealing their joy.
Anger.
I thought that seeing sex trafficking and prostitution in
such a real way would make me sad. And, yeah, it did. But I felt anger more
than anything else. I felt this burning hatred for the evil that swindles
people out of their dignity. I felt animosity for the people that make this
cycle continue. I felt outraged by the size of an industry that survives by
taking pieces of people away from them and filling them with the lie that they
are worth no more than a monetary value. We saw so much pain and confusion and
loss and brokenness. And it made me angry, because it just doesn’t have to be
that way. People are doing this to other people and it’s not right. It
shouldn’t be happening.
I walked around all week in Costa Rica and I tried to
remember that God is not based on feelings. I tried to remember that the Lord I
serve is changeless. I tried to remember that he is sovereign and all-powerful
and that he is good. I tried to
remember that the Lord is strong and loving and he is in complete control. I
tried to remember that he loves me and he loves the people of Costa Rica.
I am still trying to remember that most days. I know it’s
true. I know that God is not subject to my emotions at any particular moment,
(and praise Him for that because sometimes I cry watching State basketball
highlights) but the point is that even though I know he is not based on how I’m
feeling, that doesn’t change the fact that sometimes it still doesn’t feel like
he loves me or us or that man I met on the street in Costa Rica.
I know that he does. I know that it’s always true. He loves
me more than I ever could imagine and he loves me all day every day. I believe
those words and I ask that God would give me eyes to see his heart for the
people of Costa Rica and for the people of this world. How our father’s soul
must ache watching his children hurt so badly. God is not based on my feelings,
but that doesn’t mean that he doesn’t feel things. Help me to feel the things
that you feel, Lord. Help me to see things as you see them, through the lenses
of a masterpiece that has already been completed in full. The race has been
won. The fight is over. The enemy is defeated. That is not always easy to
believe. Lord, help my unbelief.
Monday, June 24, 2013
ponder anew.
I graduated well over a month ago. That is still hard to believe. Maybe not hard to believe. Maybe just funny or strange or uncomfortable. Maybe a little bit of all of those. About a month ago my mom, my brother, my godmother and I boarded a plane to Florence. Graduation trip. I am fortunate. I am spoiled. I have so much. All of these things I know. And yet, it is good to remind myself. I have so, so much. I am a poor, unemployed college graduate, and yet I have so, so much. Sometimes I act like I don't.
Europe. Our first stop was Florence where I loved walking through the street markets. Where I loved drinking Chianti and eating pasta. Where I attempted to speak Italian and wait until 9 PM to eat dinner. Where I climbed the 400 something stairs to the top of the Duomo and where I bought my very first piece of leather clothing. We ate well in Italy, enjoying every last bite of every last meal. We made our way to the coast and spent a day wandering between the five villages of Cinque Terre. Beauty was everywhere we looked. Unavoidable, unadulterated beauty. In the architecture, in the museums, in the people, in the art being created and displayed all around us.
Next, we found our way back to the airport and headed off to France. We spent three days in Paris walking from monument to monument, navigating the metro, climbing the Notre Dame, eating crepes, and taking in the grandness of such a brilliant city. I expected to love Paris, and I did love it. But more than anything Paris made me feel my smallness. A deep feeling of my tininess compared to the world around me, compared to the vast wealth and history of this place, compared to the God that I serve. Europe was lovely. Europe pointed me to infinity, to eternity and to the small part that my finite little body can and does play in all of that. Paris put me in my place and Paris taught me the thrills of being so small. I get to enjoy the bigness. I get to take in the wonder all around me. And I don't have to have all the answers, because I am small and there's just no way that I could know it all. Paris taught me to rest in wonder; there is peace there.
Barcelona was last on the schedule. It was a little more challenging to get there than we anticipated. We checked out of our hotel in Paris and took a taxi with all of our 10000000 bags to the airport. We checked our 100000000 bags. We were informed that the flight was an hour delayed. No one told us why. We didn't think much of it. No big deal. We made our way to the terminal and Walker and I set up camp at a little restaurant near our gate. We met an older couple that was also traveling to Barcelona. We talked to them for hours as our flight continued to be pushed back more and more.
Luckily our new friends spoke Spanish and French. Otherwise, we may never have gotten the news that our flight was cancelled. Something about lightening hitting the control tower. Or a workers strike. We're still not really sure. Our entire flight congregated around the information desk pleading for a way to our destination. We all just wanted to get to Barcelona.
Initially, we were told that buses would come and take us to a nearby airport where we would be able to catch a later flight to Spain. We walked with our new, Canadian friends to baggage claim where we retrieved our 100000000 bags and then headed to the designated bus pick-up spot.
And we waited. Along with everyone else on our flight, we waited for the buses to come. We waited for almost two and a half hours before we learned from our trilingual friends that there was in fact no other flight. Our airline had not gotten permission from the other airport to use their facility. We were still flightless.
Everyone around us was growing hungry and tired. By this point all of the shops and restaurants in the airport had closed. There was one small, red vending machine that got some good cash-flow that night.
At one point there was a woman from our flight that got pushed over by an airline worker as she attempted to take a picture of the crowd of people unhappily waiting for our buses to arrive. The police were called in more than one time as little fights (verbal and physical) broke out every so often.
We were eventually ushered back inside where we were promised refunds for our flight that never happened. We stood there waiting as more hours ticked by and no one came to help us. People had started passing around petitions and yelling chants, most of which were in Spanish, but I can assure you that they were not happy chants.
We debated finding a train to Spain. Families with small children began setting up camp in little territories around the airport. Small, makeshift homes for their babies to find some rest.
My family and I were growing anxious and unsure of where we were going to sleep and how we were going to get to our next destination. At 2:30 AM we finally managed to negotiate our way on to the 9:15 AM flight to Barcelona. We said our goodbyes to our new friends and went in search of a place to find some rest.
Our airline had showed us very little compassion throughout the whole process so when we stumbled upon some kind airport workers putting together cots for us to sleep on we fell into their arms without any hesitation. We were tired and thirsty and we hadn't eaten since noon. They gave us blankets and bottled water and pretzels and I am not sure that I have every been so thankful for the kindness of a stranger. They made me feel like I was human again.
At one point earlier in the night my little brother looked over at me and in his ever surprising wisdom he said, "Well, at least this can't last forever."
We half-slept, half-worried about our 10000000 bags of luggage being taken in a room with 50 other strangers.
I was dirty and tired and dehydrated. My clothes smelled like smoke and my eyes felt like they had dirt in them. The blanket that I had been given was not quite long enough to cover my body, but I laid there on my cot after using my 15 free minutes of airport wifi, and I thought about what Walker had said:
"At least this can't last forever."
This is but one night. I told myself, "you are tired and cranky and hungry, but this will be over so soon."
I thought about the people in my life dealing with things that do not have an end in sight. Disease and pain and death and mourning. I thought to myself that I would rather do this for 100 nights than go through the hard things that they and many like them are facing. I would rather do this for 100 nights than watch these people that I love walk through such darkness.
Laying there in that room with so many people around me, again I remembered my smallness. I was reminded of my lack of power. My finiteness. I have nothing to give. I cannot change these things. They are so big and I am so small. I didn't have the power to end the workers strike or to stop the storm and I don't have the power to heal sick bodies or to take away deep, soul pain. I can't do any of those things. I just can't.
I am but one little person. I am but myself and that is as it ought to be. No more can I remember how small I am before I am reminded of how big my father is. He was there that night in the airport and he is there with the people that I love in the darkness, in the pain and in the fear. He is there in the hospitals and in the homes. He is there. And he is not small.
I couldn't help but think of all of the things we had visited in Italy and France. Human beings spent so much time and energy and money building these magnificent churches and sanctuaries. My family and I visited them in every city we went to. They are all huge and they are all beautiful. They are without a doubt filled with true grandeur. They are wonderful.
I was reminded, laying on my cot in the airport hall that He is so much bigger, so much more beautiful than the tallest tower or the most intricate painting.
And then I fell asleep, uncomfortable as I had been in a very long time, full of questions that I still do not have the answers to, but brimming with peace knowing that I lay in my Father's great big arms.
Lord, help my unbelief.
Europe. Our first stop was Florence where I loved walking through the street markets. Where I loved drinking Chianti and eating pasta. Where I attempted to speak Italian and wait until 9 PM to eat dinner. Where I climbed the 400 something stairs to the top of the Duomo and where I bought my very first piece of leather clothing. We ate well in Italy, enjoying every last bite of every last meal. We made our way to the coast and spent a day wandering between the five villages of Cinque Terre. Beauty was everywhere we looked. Unavoidable, unadulterated beauty. In the architecture, in the museums, in the people, in the art being created and displayed all around us.
Next, we found our way back to the airport and headed off to France. We spent three days in Paris walking from monument to monument, navigating the metro, climbing the Notre Dame, eating crepes, and taking in the grandness of such a brilliant city. I expected to love Paris, and I did love it. But more than anything Paris made me feel my smallness. A deep feeling of my tininess compared to the world around me, compared to the vast wealth and history of this place, compared to the God that I serve. Europe was lovely. Europe pointed me to infinity, to eternity and to the small part that my finite little body can and does play in all of that. Paris put me in my place and Paris taught me the thrills of being so small. I get to enjoy the bigness. I get to take in the wonder all around me. And I don't have to have all the answers, because I am small and there's just no way that I could know it all. Paris taught me to rest in wonder; there is peace there.
Barcelona was last on the schedule. It was a little more challenging to get there than we anticipated. We checked out of our hotel in Paris and took a taxi with all of our 10000000 bags to the airport. We checked our 100000000 bags. We were informed that the flight was an hour delayed. No one told us why. We didn't think much of it. No big deal. We made our way to the terminal and Walker and I set up camp at a little restaurant near our gate. We met an older couple that was also traveling to Barcelona. We talked to them for hours as our flight continued to be pushed back more and more.
Luckily our new friends spoke Spanish and French. Otherwise, we may never have gotten the news that our flight was cancelled. Something about lightening hitting the control tower. Or a workers strike. We're still not really sure. Our entire flight congregated around the information desk pleading for a way to our destination. We all just wanted to get to Barcelona.
Initially, we were told that buses would come and take us to a nearby airport where we would be able to catch a later flight to Spain. We walked with our new, Canadian friends to baggage claim where we retrieved our 100000000 bags and then headed to the designated bus pick-up spot.
And we waited. Along with everyone else on our flight, we waited for the buses to come. We waited for almost two and a half hours before we learned from our trilingual friends that there was in fact no other flight. Our airline had not gotten permission from the other airport to use their facility. We were still flightless.
Everyone around us was growing hungry and tired. By this point all of the shops and restaurants in the airport had closed. There was one small, red vending machine that got some good cash-flow that night.
At one point there was a woman from our flight that got pushed over by an airline worker as she attempted to take a picture of the crowd of people unhappily waiting for our buses to arrive. The police were called in more than one time as little fights (verbal and physical) broke out every so often.
We were eventually ushered back inside where we were promised refunds for our flight that never happened. We stood there waiting as more hours ticked by and no one came to help us. People had started passing around petitions and yelling chants, most of which were in Spanish, but I can assure you that they were not happy chants.
We debated finding a train to Spain. Families with small children began setting up camp in little territories around the airport. Small, makeshift homes for their babies to find some rest.
My family and I were growing anxious and unsure of where we were going to sleep and how we were going to get to our next destination. At 2:30 AM we finally managed to negotiate our way on to the 9:15 AM flight to Barcelona. We said our goodbyes to our new friends and went in search of a place to find some rest.
Our airline had showed us very little compassion throughout the whole process so when we stumbled upon some kind airport workers putting together cots for us to sleep on we fell into their arms without any hesitation. We were tired and thirsty and we hadn't eaten since noon. They gave us blankets and bottled water and pretzels and I am not sure that I have every been so thankful for the kindness of a stranger. They made me feel like I was human again.
At one point earlier in the night my little brother looked over at me and in his ever surprising wisdom he said, "Well, at least this can't last forever."
We half-slept, half-worried about our 10000000 bags of luggage being taken in a room with 50 other strangers.
I was dirty and tired and dehydrated. My clothes smelled like smoke and my eyes felt like they had dirt in them. The blanket that I had been given was not quite long enough to cover my body, but I laid there on my cot after using my 15 free minutes of airport wifi, and I thought about what Walker had said:
"At least this can't last forever."
This is but one night. I told myself, "you are tired and cranky and hungry, but this will be over so soon."
I thought about the people in my life dealing with things that do not have an end in sight. Disease and pain and death and mourning. I thought to myself that I would rather do this for 100 nights than go through the hard things that they and many like them are facing. I would rather do this for 100 nights than watch these people that I love walk through such darkness.
Laying there in that room with so many people around me, again I remembered my smallness. I was reminded of my lack of power. My finiteness. I have nothing to give. I cannot change these things. They are so big and I am so small. I didn't have the power to end the workers strike or to stop the storm and I don't have the power to heal sick bodies or to take away deep, soul pain. I can't do any of those things. I just can't.
I am but one little person. I am but myself and that is as it ought to be. No more can I remember how small I am before I am reminded of how big my father is. He was there that night in the airport and he is there with the people that I love in the darkness, in the pain and in the fear. He is there in the hospitals and in the homes. He is there. And he is not small.
I couldn't help but think of all of the things we had visited in Italy and France. Human beings spent so much time and energy and money building these magnificent churches and sanctuaries. My family and I visited them in every city we went to. They are all huge and they are all beautiful. They are without a doubt filled with true grandeur. They are wonderful.
I was reminded, laying on my cot in the airport hall that He is so much bigger, so much more beautiful than the tallest tower or the most intricate painting.
And then I fell asleep, uncomfortable as I had been in a very long time, full of questions that I still do not have the answers to, but brimming with peace knowing that I lay in my Father's great big arms.
Lord, help my unbelief.
Saturday, March 16, 2013
"An artist's only concern is to shoot for some kind of perfection & on his own terms, not anyone else's."
I was recently asked to think about the time or times in my life that I have felt the most known, the most understood.
I can tell you about times I have tried really hard to be understood, and I wasn't. I can tell you about other times that I have hidden from people who genuinely wanted to know me. I can tell you about times that I talked and talked and talked, explaining my life away, desperately trying to be heard and ultimately known. Some of those attempts proved unsuccessful. Some of them seemed successful for a while and then somehow lost their place.
I thought you knew. I thought you understood. Now I'm not so sure. The success stories are still in play. Being known, being understood, feeling like I belong in spite of myself. It's a process. It's seemingly never ending. Partially, because I am always changing and rearranging. Part of the process is me. You can't all-of-the-sudden know me, because I don't all-of-the-way know myself. I am changing and I am learning to embrace that. But this change has implications not only for how I understand and deal with myself, but how I am seen and understood, how I am known by other people, the ones that are willing to walk with me. I am thankful for those people. How precious it is to feel known and loved. But there is so much fear.
I think that I probably don't have that many new fears. Fears are neither created, nor destroyed; that's the theory, right? I've been running from the same things for years. Maybe there are three of them, maybe there are more. I think they travel in packs, my fears. They walk around together, stomping their feet so that they sound bigger than they actually are. And some of them are pretty big to begin with. At least I think they are, but I've never actually seen them. My monsters are not so historic. They are old, but these guys are still here; they're still around. They won't let me go; they won't let go of my hand. These monsters are old, but don't let that fool you, they are not frail. They are strong. I know, because I give them their strength.
They shape just about every aspect of my life. They bend and move to fit whatever scenario I am facing, but they are absolutely the same every time. The same things that hold me back as an artist, as a creator are the very same things that hold me back everywhere else. In school, in relationships, in the way I drive my car and eat my food. They shape the way I dress and write, but they also shape the way I talk, the way I move from one room to the next, the way I sit at the kitchen table.
Please don't look at me. I am afraid of being exposed. Please don't reject me. I am afraid of you not liking me anymore, not loving me anymore, even the smallest piece of me. Please don't laugh or mock or ridicule. Worst of all, please don't misunderstand. I want to be loved and heard and understood, but I want to maintain the right to hide, to be invisible. Sometimes the thought of you knowing is too much. For better or for worse, like it or not, it is out there now. I am afraid of being known. I am afraid of what being known might mean. I said it and now I can't take it back. I can't turn around. I can't change the focus, even though every bone in my body would rather talk about you. I'd rather talk to my monsters, about what they think than show them what I am thinking. Yeah, part of it is about not wanting to be rejected, but part of it is just me wanting that for myself. My independence, my ability to remain anonymous, mysterious, without understanding.
You are my monster. You are my monsters. I don't want to feel exposed, and I can't let you see these things without complete and utter exposure happening. This is my mind, my heart. It feels like it's the essence of who I am, my very being. I don't really mind what you think about it (not really true), but to show it to you means I give you a part of myself. Sometimes I am not sure I have that many more pieces left to give. I want to hoard them, store them up, save them, keep them somewhere safe so that they are that - safe. So that they are not misunderstood, marginalized, rejected, sometimes even so that they are not praised, puffed up.
Maybe they are pretty, but maybe they're not. Maybe they're actually just Cs. Don't tell me they're As, when really they're just Cs. If Cs are what I have, if Cs are what I am, then Cs are beautiful, then Cs are what I was created to be. How dare you tell me that I wasn't. How dare you tell me that I was made for more, or that I was made for less. This is all. This is it. This is what I have. I am terrified to be exposed. What I have is mine. I give it value. I don't want your value. I don't want what you think about it. It just is and that's all. Allow me to exist, and don't try to change me. Don't try to make me more pretty or more relevant. Just let me exist. I'm afraid that if I am exposed you won't let me do that, you won't let me exist. You'll force me into something I'm not, something I don't want to be, a lie. Please let me be.
I'll give you one last chance to try. I'll give you one more shot to do what I am terrified you might actually do.
There is something so profoundly comforting and nurturing about feeling deeply and intimately known. You've taken the time to figure me out. You really see. You understand, or at least you're trying to. Regardless of whether or not you like it all, there is something to be said for being seen and understood.
"It's a sweet, sweet thing: standing here with you & nothing to hide."
There are things to learn there, in that place of true and abundant light. Nothing to hide. That sounds so free. All part of the process. Honesty, commitment, vulnerability, intentionality. Those things all have to be there for this kind of process to play out. The perfect storm of factors coming together so that I can finally show you. Here you go. This is it. This is what I have for you. That process is continual. That process can only occur in the context of safety. Trust is there, but also boldness. This is long term. This doesn't happen over night. How sweet when we get here. How true and beautiful and valuable that we ended up here. Who would have thought?
I love this first kind of being known. I love it because it is something that we choose to do. This is the kind that heals us. I am covered in light. I think there's a second kind. It's equally as valuable, equally as redemptive, but starkly different. This kind takes you off guard. You don't know it's happening until it's over. It blindsides. It knocks the wind out of you. I can't believe that just happened. I didn't give you clearance to go there, to do that, to know what you know.
If you're reading this, and you have at all followed what I am trying to say, then you know me in this way. And that scares me, but it also sets me free. It also heals and legitimizes me. Thank you, but know that I'm a little freaked out.
Shock and relief. I cannot hide anymore, and that is hugely freeing. I can breathe, because the waiting is over. The cat is out of the bag. There's no going back. Am I sure I want to do this? I don't know, but I know it is good.
Two weeks ago I took four midterms in two days. Ew. Then, I had Spring Break. Then, Spring Break was over, and I went back to school. My Lit professor kindly warned us at the beginning of class on Monday that he would be handing our midterms back at the end of the class period.
I had all but forgotten about that midterm. I had taken Spring Break to mean a week of detachment from the reality of my life. I left school and the routine that I do every week behind and I dove head first into the last Spring Break I'll ever have. My teacher, standing at the front of the room talking about midterms sucked me back into the world that I live in, my reality.
It's a Lit class. Studies in Fiction. For the exam we got three prompts to choose from and we wrote one essay. That was it. As my professor continued to talk about themes in our papers and the average grade, I began to remember my own paper. I wrote about a novel by J.D. Salinger, Franny and Zooey. I wrote about Zooey's desire in the novel to overlook the depravity in himself and others, the desire to focus on the good within each individual. I wrote about the pain and hurt that is in and around Zooey. I wrote about how he lives in the middle of one great big pile of brokenness. He cannot escape it. It comes from within and just fills every second of his days. I argued that Zooey wants people (specifically, his sister, Franny) to focus on the innate beauty that everyone possesses, because that is what we each need reminding of, not the darkness, not the ugliness.
I was writing about this character in the story, things he was wrestling with. But as I wrote, the words poured. I was writing until the very last minute of the class period. It felt like I had just taken a small part of myself and laid it down on the exam. This blue book, a mirror to my soul. I handed my professor this little piece of my heart, and then I began Spring Break, not thinking twice about it.
I created this thing, an essay. Someone might call it art. I am not that person, but I feel comfortable calling it my, "creation." I did make it. It came from me. I gave it life. I gave it meaning and substance. I molded it. I wrote and wrote for an hour and a half and then it was done, the final product. I don't feel this way often, especially with papers I write for school, but I was happy with it. I was confident handing it in, because it mattered. It meant something to me. Ideas always matter, but this time I liked the form that my ideas had taken.
My final product looked familiar. My final product looked a lot like something I had seen before. My final product reflected not only the ideas I had about this particular novel, but it reflected my own desires, my own hopes, my own dreams and ambitions. This was a piece of myself. Never has the creation process seemed so clear to me. All of the sudden, as my teacher was standing up in front of the class, talking about extra credit points, it clicked. I do this, not because I have some obsession with writing, or creation, but because this is who I am. This is not something that I give life to. This has life because it is a part of me. Its life is not separate from my own. We are one. My creation and me. This thing that I wrote is a very real part of me. This is a way for me to be known.
As class came to an end, he began to hand back our exams. Suddenly, I felt afraid. Again, these monsters came stomping around the corner. "Surely he won't remember my essay. He's graded 100s of papers this week," I told myself. "You're safe. You're hidden." All the while, I can feel the vibration from the monsters' stomps.
He called my name. It was my turn to collect my exam, my paper. It was time to take that little piece of myself back. "Finally," I thought. I reached for my exam. We stood there, my professor and I, each with a firm grip on my paper. He engaged eye contact. My stomach hurt. I couldn't think about anything outside of the fact that I might throw up on this man. "This was really very good," he said. "thank you," I said, in what I am sure was the tiniest voice anyone has ever heard (if he even heard it at all). And then I ran away.
That was one of the most intimate moments I have ever had. That eye contact felt like a looking glass into the deepest part of me. Exposure at its finest. This man that I do not know outside of the context of this class now knows more of me than some people that I see every week. It had nothing to do with what he thought of my paper. Was I glad that he liked it? Duh. Especially, because he hands out the grades and I am a fifth year senior hoping to graduate at some point. The praise and encouragement was nice, but the intensity came from being heard, understood, seen, and known.
I wasn't ready for it. It completely blindsided me. But it also somehow made me feel legitimate. It made me feel like a human being. Somehow him seeing that part of me, made me real.
To be known. To be understood. To be seen. I don't think I live my life in hiding, but part of me likes the idea of being able to hide. When that option disappears, it's scary, regardless of whether or not I see it coming, whether or not I welcome it.
Maybe that has to happen if I want people to read the things that I write, and maybe that has to happen if I want to write things that are worth reading.
I can tell you about times I have tried really hard to be understood, and I wasn't. I can tell you about other times that I have hidden from people who genuinely wanted to know me. I can tell you about times that I talked and talked and talked, explaining my life away, desperately trying to be heard and ultimately known. Some of those attempts proved unsuccessful. Some of them seemed successful for a while and then somehow lost their place.
I thought you knew. I thought you understood. Now I'm not so sure. The success stories are still in play. Being known, being understood, feeling like I belong in spite of myself. It's a process. It's seemingly never ending. Partially, because I am always changing and rearranging. Part of the process is me. You can't all-of-the-sudden know me, because I don't all-of-the-way know myself. I am changing and I am learning to embrace that. But this change has implications not only for how I understand and deal with myself, but how I am seen and understood, how I am known by other people, the ones that are willing to walk with me. I am thankful for those people. How precious it is to feel known and loved. But there is so much fear.
I think that I probably don't have that many new fears. Fears are neither created, nor destroyed; that's the theory, right? I've been running from the same things for years. Maybe there are three of them, maybe there are more. I think they travel in packs, my fears. They walk around together, stomping their feet so that they sound bigger than they actually are. And some of them are pretty big to begin with. At least I think they are, but I've never actually seen them. My monsters are not so historic. They are old, but these guys are still here; they're still around. They won't let me go; they won't let go of my hand. These monsters are old, but don't let that fool you, they are not frail. They are strong. I know, because I give them their strength.
They shape just about every aspect of my life. They bend and move to fit whatever scenario I am facing, but they are absolutely the same every time. The same things that hold me back as an artist, as a creator are the very same things that hold me back everywhere else. In school, in relationships, in the way I drive my car and eat my food. They shape the way I dress and write, but they also shape the way I talk, the way I move from one room to the next, the way I sit at the kitchen table.
Please don't look at me. I am afraid of being exposed. Please don't reject me. I am afraid of you not liking me anymore, not loving me anymore, even the smallest piece of me. Please don't laugh or mock or ridicule. Worst of all, please don't misunderstand. I want to be loved and heard and understood, but I want to maintain the right to hide, to be invisible. Sometimes the thought of you knowing is too much. For better or for worse, like it or not, it is out there now. I am afraid of being known. I am afraid of what being known might mean. I said it and now I can't take it back. I can't turn around. I can't change the focus, even though every bone in my body would rather talk about you. I'd rather talk to my monsters, about what they think than show them what I am thinking. Yeah, part of it is about not wanting to be rejected, but part of it is just me wanting that for myself. My independence, my ability to remain anonymous, mysterious, without understanding.
You are my monster. You are my monsters. I don't want to feel exposed, and I can't let you see these things without complete and utter exposure happening. This is my mind, my heart. It feels like it's the essence of who I am, my very being. I don't really mind what you think about it (not really true), but to show it to you means I give you a part of myself. Sometimes I am not sure I have that many more pieces left to give. I want to hoard them, store them up, save them, keep them somewhere safe so that they are that - safe. So that they are not misunderstood, marginalized, rejected, sometimes even so that they are not praised, puffed up.
Maybe they are pretty, but maybe they're not. Maybe they're actually just Cs. Don't tell me they're As, when really they're just Cs. If Cs are what I have, if Cs are what I am, then Cs are beautiful, then Cs are what I was created to be. How dare you tell me that I wasn't. How dare you tell me that I was made for more, or that I was made for less. This is all. This is it. This is what I have. I am terrified to be exposed. What I have is mine. I give it value. I don't want your value. I don't want what you think about it. It just is and that's all. Allow me to exist, and don't try to change me. Don't try to make me more pretty or more relevant. Just let me exist. I'm afraid that if I am exposed you won't let me do that, you won't let me exist. You'll force me into something I'm not, something I don't want to be, a lie. Please let me be.
I'll give you one last chance to try. I'll give you one more shot to do what I am terrified you might actually do.
There is something so profoundly comforting and nurturing about feeling deeply and intimately known. You've taken the time to figure me out. You really see. You understand, or at least you're trying to. Regardless of whether or not you like it all, there is something to be said for being seen and understood.
"It's a sweet, sweet thing: standing here with you & nothing to hide."
There are things to learn there, in that place of true and abundant light. Nothing to hide. That sounds so free. All part of the process. Honesty, commitment, vulnerability, intentionality. Those things all have to be there for this kind of process to play out. The perfect storm of factors coming together so that I can finally show you. Here you go. This is it. This is what I have for you. That process is continual. That process can only occur in the context of safety. Trust is there, but also boldness. This is long term. This doesn't happen over night. How sweet when we get here. How true and beautiful and valuable that we ended up here. Who would have thought?
I love this first kind of being known. I love it because it is something that we choose to do. This is the kind that heals us. I am covered in light. I think there's a second kind. It's equally as valuable, equally as redemptive, but starkly different. This kind takes you off guard. You don't know it's happening until it's over. It blindsides. It knocks the wind out of you. I can't believe that just happened. I didn't give you clearance to go there, to do that, to know what you know.
If you're reading this, and you have at all followed what I am trying to say, then you know me in this way. And that scares me, but it also sets me free. It also heals and legitimizes me. Thank you, but know that I'm a little freaked out.
Shock and relief. I cannot hide anymore, and that is hugely freeing. I can breathe, because the waiting is over. The cat is out of the bag. There's no going back. Am I sure I want to do this? I don't know, but I know it is good.
Two weeks ago I took four midterms in two days. Ew. Then, I had Spring Break. Then, Spring Break was over, and I went back to school. My Lit professor kindly warned us at the beginning of class on Monday that he would be handing our midterms back at the end of the class period.
I had all but forgotten about that midterm. I had taken Spring Break to mean a week of detachment from the reality of my life. I left school and the routine that I do every week behind and I dove head first into the last Spring Break I'll ever have. My teacher, standing at the front of the room talking about midterms sucked me back into the world that I live in, my reality.
It's a Lit class. Studies in Fiction. For the exam we got three prompts to choose from and we wrote one essay. That was it. As my professor continued to talk about themes in our papers and the average grade, I began to remember my own paper. I wrote about a novel by J.D. Salinger, Franny and Zooey. I wrote about Zooey's desire in the novel to overlook the depravity in himself and others, the desire to focus on the good within each individual. I wrote about the pain and hurt that is in and around Zooey. I wrote about how he lives in the middle of one great big pile of brokenness. He cannot escape it. It comes from within and just fills every second of his days. I argued that Zooey wants people (specifically, his sister, Franny) to focus on the innate beauty that everyone possesses, because that is what we each need reminding of, not the darkness, not the ugliness.
I was writing about this character in the story, things he was wrestling with. But as I wrote, the words poured. I was writing until the very last minute of the class period. It felt like I had just taken a small part of myself and laid it down on the exam. This blue book, a mirror to my soul. I handed my professor this little piece of my heart, and then I began Spring Break, not thinking twice about it.
I created this thing, an essay. Someone might call it art. I am not that person, but I feel comfortable calling it my, "creation." I did make it. It came from me. I gave it life. I gave it meaning and substance. I molded it. I wrote and wrote for an hour and a half and then it was done, the final product. I don't feel this way often, especially with papers I write for school, but I was happy with it. I was confident handing it in, because it mattered. It meant something to me. Ideas always matter, but this time I liked the form that my ideas had taken.
My final product looked familiar. My final product looked a lot like something I had seen before. My final product reflected not only the ideas I had about this particular novel, but it reflected my own desires, my own hopes, my own dreams and ambitions. This was a piece of myself. Never has the creation process seemed so clear to me. All of the sudden, as my teacher was standing up in front of the class, talking about extra credit points, it clicked. I do this, not because I have some obsession with writing, or creation, but because this is who I am. This is not something that I give life to. This has life because it is a part of me. Its life is not separate from my own. We are one. My creation and me. This thing that I wrote is a very real part of me. This is a way for me to be known.
As class came to an end, he began to hand back our exams. Suddenly, I felt afraid. Again, these monsters came stomping around the corner. "Surely he won't remember my essay. He's graded 100s of papers this week," I told myself. "You're safe. You're hidden." All the while, I can feel the vibration from the monsters' stomps.
He called my name. It was my turn to collect my exam, my paper. It was time to take that little piece of myself back. "Finally," I thought. I reached for my exam. We stood there, my professor and I, each with a firm grip on my paper. He engaged eye contact. My stomach hurt. I couldn't think about anything outside of the fact that I might throw up on this man. "This was really very good," he said. "thank you," I said, in what I am sure was the tiniest voice anyone has ever heard (if he even heard it at all). And then I ran away.
That was one of the most intimate moments I have ever had. That eye contact felt like a looking glass into the deepest part of me. Exposure at its finest. This man that I do not know outside of the context of this class now knows more of me than some people that I see every week. It had nothing to do with what he thought of my paper. Was I glad that he liked it? Duh. Especially, because he hands out the grades and I am a fifth year senior hoping to graduate at some point. The praise and encouragement was nice, but the intensity came from being heard, understood, seen, and known.
I wasn't ready for it. It completely blindsided me. But it also somehow made me feel legitimate. It made me feel like a human being. Somehow him seeing that part of me, made me real.
To be known. To be understood. To be seen. I don't think I live my life in hiding, but part of me likes the idea of being able to hide. When that option disappears, it's scary, regardless of whether or not I see it coming, whether or not I welcome it.
Maybe that has to happen if I want people to read the things that I write, and maybe that has to happen if I want to write things that are worth reading.
Wednesday, February 27, 2013
LIST TWO: My favorites.
1. Re-watching movies
2. Words
3. Front doors, especially red ones
4. Concerts
5. Green stuff
6. Blankets
7. The 1911 building
8. Creeks
9. The way Home Depot smells
10. Stars
11. Blogs
12. Vests
13. [Buttermilk] pies & most desserts
14. Time with my people
15. Ski lifts
16. (night time) Beaches
17. Coffee, especially Larry's Beans and Cup A Joe
18. (screened in) Porches with comfy chairs
19. Fireworks (slightly less than stars)
20. Clothes, especially Fall/Spring clothes
21. Medium-large sized dogs
22. Frozen vegetables
22. Frozen vegetables
23. The smell of gasoline
24. Time magazine
25. Fancy restaurants like Caffe Luna & Josephine's
26. Roads with really wide lanes
27. Letters (sending & receiving)
28. Sundays
29. Plastic silverware
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