"Hope" Is The Thing With Feathers*: On Being A Songbird

 Photo: "Who Taught That Redwing Blackbird How to Fly" by freshelectrons is licensed under CC BY-NC-SA 2.0.

This morning I ran 3.6 miles!  Only 9.5 miles to go.  The last half mile was pretty rough, but I made it, slowly, one foot in front of the other.

At one point near the end of my run, the song I was listening to on my phone came to an end and there was a long stretch of silence before the next song began.  I really dislike those stretches of silence sometimes - at the end of my long runs I rely on the music to keep me going, to keep me focused, to keep my mind off how much everything hurts.  In the silence I hear my labored breathing, hear the sounds of my feet smacking the hard ground, hear the noise of traffic or construction or other people's conversations.  With the music it is easier for me to run with purpose, without it running often feels a lot more like work.

Today however, just as I started to groan inwardly at how long the next song was taking to begin, a new sound caught my ear.  I was running through a park and the songbirds were really making "a joyful noise" in the trees on one side of me.  I smiled immediately because I love the sound of birds singing (who doesn't?), and this morning their commotion sounded very much like boisterous voices cheering me on as I ran.

I love songbirds.  I love waking up in the morning, while it is still dark, and hearing them singing outside my window - announcing, without any alarm clock, the impending arrival of a new day.  I especially love that first morning, near the end of a long winter (and this winter was the longest, wasn't it?) when you first hear their voices.  To me, someone who struggles deeply in winter with its short days and long nights, those first early morning songs are the sound of hope - the reminder that this too shall pass and that if I can hold on just a little longer, I will once again be surrounded by a world of light and warmth.

It struck me this morning as I ran that Christians are called to the same purpose as songbirds.  We are called to be the heralds of the Light of the World, singing a song of hope and courage to those still sitting in darkness.  Often I listen to the news or read the headlines, and I feel so disheartened, discouraged by the seemingly great ocean of evil and hatred and suffering all around me.  But this morning I felt encouraged, invigorated by the gentle reminder that we are called to be the harbingers of Good News to a world that is waiting, often in hopelessness and despair, just as the songbirds are the harbingers of spring and of a new dawn to those of us who cannot yet feel it or see it.  The birds don't feel it or see it yet either, but they know it is coming, and they sing out their joyful song in the beautiful way they were created to do.  We, too, will soon enjoy the light and beauty of a glorious (and eternal!) spring day, but first we must usher it in as songbirds in the darkness of a waning night.

It is is said that Pheidippides ran the first marathon in Greece from a battlefield to the city of Athens to announce the victory of the Greeks over the Persians in a military conflict.  (The fable goes on to say that he then collapsed and died, which is why I am running a half-marathon, people.  HALF-marathon.)  I'll be running my race in October because I want to join with the staff and volunteers at Heartline Ministries in being a forerunner of hope to the people of Haiti, announcing a victory that is finished even as they wait, and the advent of a Kingdom of Peace to those who have known much more of loss and violence than I can ever imagine.

It takes courage and perseverance to be a forerunner.  It takes faith to be a songbird.  It takes eyes to see what the Creator is about to reveal, and it takes the courage to sing out the Good News of the victory of the Unconquerable Son to a world still shrouded in darkness.

So to the songbirds of this world: Take heart!  We hear you.  Your voice makes a difference, and when we hear it, we have hope.

And to those who feel worn out and alone, tired of waiting, tired of enduring:  I know it has been a long winter, the longest night.  But close your eyes and listen: "the birds their carol raise."  The Light of the World is coming!  Dawn is almost here!

******

I can't end a post about songbirds without including a link to one of my all-time favorite songs ever: Redwing by Hem.  Listen and enjoy!

Redwing

Hey, was that you floating past the tree line?
Hey, was that a feather in your hand?
No, I don't mean to ask these questions
I don't mean to rush your heart
I swear I saw this accidentally
No, I don't mean to start

Hey, the rain falls straight into the sidewalk
Hey, the clouds hang heavy in the sky
But I don't want to still believe in
The gravity of solid ground
The world below is not so big
That it can keep us down

We are standing on the rooftops
We are circling like sparrows
We are tiny, we are trembling
Scared of everything
But the heart is still a redwing

Fly above the houses and the schoolyards
And fly until you cannot feel the Earth
No, I don't mean that it's so easy
And I don't mean that it's so small
But the world below is not so mean
That it can make us fall

We are standing on the rooftops
We are circling like sparrows
We are tiny, we are trembling
Scared of everything
But the heart is still a redwing

Songwriters
Daniel R. Messe

Published by
Lyrics © Universal Music Publishing Group

******

*"Hope" is the thing with feathers - (314) by Emily Dickinson

******

On October 19th of this year, I will be running the St. Louis Rock-n-Roll Half-Marathon with the goal of raising $5,000 for Heartline Ministries and the women of Port-au-Prince, Haiti.  If you would like to support me in my efforts, please visit my Pure Charity fundraising page for more information!  Thank you!

This One Is For Courage

A couple of posts ago (which, I realize, was also about 3 months ago), I mentioned a song by one of my favorite musicians, Ben Shive. The song is called "A Last Time for Everything" and it appears on Ben's newest album, The Cymbal Crashing Clouds. (I highly recommend Ben's album. I also highly recommend Ben's family if you are ever fortunate enough to meet them. They are the kind of people this world needs more of.) I mentioned in that post that I would hopefully post the lyrics to the song here, after I first made sure it was okay. (At the time of my original post, the album hadn't dropped yet. Is that the right word, "dropped?" I know almost nothing about the music industry.)

Anyway, I checked, and it is okay, so here, my friends, are the lyrics:

(But first! Go here so that you can listen to the song while you read the lyrics!)

A LAST TIME FOR EVERYTHING

We’re running out
of fear and doubt;
we’re low on loneliness.
And long goodbyes
are in short supply;
we’re coming to the bitter’s end.

Tired of the letdowns,
‘cause they never let up
when learning to do without
is all that you ever get enough of.

Well, there is a last time. There's a last time for everything.

Then what of this earthly life?
It’s a beating sustained
by a knot of nerves and veins:
a trembling choir.

We are born born to pass away
and nothing gold can stay;
I’m a dwindling fire.

The seasons spin around me
as I’m breathing in and out,
and ever my heart is pounding
a steady, unstoppable countdown

Counting down to the last time. There's a last time for everything.

You have to look death in the eye--
In the eye!
You need to see what’s hidden there
You have to look him in the eye
In the eye!
You need to see that he’s afraid to die.
He's afraid to die.

But you my love,
you’re gonna wake up soon
in your lonely room
to the sound of a singing bird

and throw the curtain back
to find your bag’s already packed
and the cab is at the curb.

And, like a bad dream--
unreal in the morning light--
so will the world seem
when you see it in the mirror for the last time.

‘Cause there is a last time for everything. There's a last time for everything.


(For some of the story behind this song, go here.)


In the past month, another good friend of mine had a miscarriage. When I heard the news, I felt my insides tighten up and my heart start to ache, because while all grief is personal and unique, I know my own version of that sorrow, and it is awful. And I hurt for her and her family. And I wished, for what felt like the thousandth time, that no one else would experience what she has experienced and that I could take every ounce of grief and pain away from her forever.

I can't. Not even close. But I know someone who can, and He has promised to do exactly that, and He who promised is faithful.

Until that day, dear friend, I will pray that you will be able to hold unswervingly to the hope on which your heart rests. And I pray that even in the midst of the grief and sorrow, you will be able to know - really know - that all of this is only temporary and will one day end. The pain and sorrow and separation of death is trickling out,

and one day,

in a blink,

it

will

all

be




gone.

Tonight's Topic: Life, Death, and The End of Everything. Cheers!

I let Eden watch Charlotte's Web several weeks ago. She had handled the drama that is Bambi with oblivious delight and dearly loves farm animals, so I thought, why not Charlotte's Web? The talking and singing barnyard beasts will be right up her alley, and apparently, the significance of death is still far from her radar.

And I was right, she loved it. She still loves it, in fact, despite this conversation that we had at the end:

E: "Mommy, where did that spider go? Why is the pig crying?"

S: [Caught a little off guard because WHERE WERE THESE QUESTIONS DURING BAMBI?? and yet, desperately trying to sound completely casual and nonchalant] "Well, baby, she got old and died."

S: Oh no. That had to be way too blunt. Where is the well-spring of mother-wisdom that is supposed to miraculously appear at these moments??

[Long pause.]

E: ME????

S: Nooooo. She can't be... it's not possible... she doesn't mean....

E: ME AND MOMMY DIE AND GET OLD????

So, to recap.

Parental To-Do List:
1) Scar child for life.

Check.

**********

I went for a walk in a big cemetery recently. I love cemeteries. I think I've mentioned all this before, probably more than once. I know it's weird, but I just think they are utterly fascinating places. When I was a kid I always wanted to live next to a cemetery when I grew up. In fact, I thought for a long time that one of the coolest jobs in the world would be being a groundskeeper at a cemetery, keeping everything beautiful and tidy and well-loved.

The cemetery that I visited a few weeks ago is fairly large. As I walked through the front gates and made my way down the path toward the older section near the back, I noticed how the lifespans recorded on the gravestones progressively shortened. Not so very long ago old age must have seemed a gift, a family unmarked by the death of the young and the seemingly strong must have seemed a marvel.

I stood for a long time at one small family plot in particular. It belonged to a man who over the course of eight years lost a two-year-old son, his thirty-four-year-old wife, and finally, the last remaining person in his immediate family, a five-year-old daughter. He then lived on into his eighties. His grave was next to theirs though, and there were no others. I spent a long time wondering about his life. The Before and the After and the What Came Next of his story. I wonder what he thought of his own personal longevity and what he did with the rest of his life. I wonder what he thought of his story and if there is anyone living who still knows it.

On my walk I saw one phrase repeated again and again and again: gone but not forgotten. And next to more than a few of the gravestones bearing these very words, were other gravestones, so old and weather-beaten that all inscriptions had been completely worn away and only the presence of the rocks themselves bore witness to the fact that someone once had lived and died and been buried there. I kept wondering if there was anyone left alive who might still know those names - who might still say, you are gone but not forgotten. Or, with the eventual death of friends and family, and the power of wind and rain on rock, had their very existence been obliterated from the memory of the world? How many, in that cemetery alone, were both gone and forgotten? How many, in all the ages of this world, have come and gone in a blink?

**********

A friend of ours from college, an extremely talented musician, is on the brink of releasing his second album, The Cymbal Crashing Clouds. One of his songs - "A Last Time For Everything" - keeps circling through my mind over and over. I'll post the lyrics here someday hopefully, once I make sure it's okay. But three miscarriages in four years have left me thinking a lot about last times these days.

On Saturday, I threw a birthday party for my sweet little girl, and despite my utter lack of crafty-supermom-Susie Homemaker-skills, I worked as hard at it as I could to make it beautiful.

She's three. She won't remember.

But this may be the one and only three-year-old birthday party I ever get to throw, and I will remember.

**********

So, that. I'm no longer at all sure that we will have any more children. I've stopped planning it out. And it's not because I'm being melodramatic or depressed. It's because I've been brought face-to-face three times now with a reality that all those people who died a century or two ago probably never had the luxury of forgetting. There is a last time for everything, and by and large, we don't get to decide when that last time is. A last birthday party, a last child, a last breath. Our life is a series of last moments, the vast majority of which slip by without us even noticing, and sooner or later we each experience them all.

But Ben's song reminds me that there are other lasts worth noting. Time is winding down on more than just our lives on this earth. And one day, when we have finally set aside all the temporary things of this mortal life, something else will come to an end. "He will wipe every tear from their eyes. There will be no more death or mourning or crying or pain, for the old order of things has passed away." (Revelation 21:4)

Last tears.
Last mourning.
Last pain.
Last death.
There is a last time for these too.

**********

July 30th was my Judah's due date. For awhile, there was a part of his life that had me looking forward. Now it is all looking back. Despite what this long post on death might lead you to believe, I'm actually feeling okay. I think, maybe, the worst of the grief has passed. Those sharp pangs of heartbreak and anger are fairly rare now. The depression seems to be lifting. It's never quite the same though, is it? You recover from an illness, but how do you ever fully recover from the death of someone you loved? I miss Judah, and it makes me sad that he isn't here. And he's never going to be here. So, as long as I live, how can there not be some part of me that remains a little sad? I'm not sure how to recover from the missing him. I'm not sure how to let go of the great big dream of the how and the when and the where of my own children. I had a plan. It's not remotely coming to pass. And I'm coming to terms with that.

**********

One last song, and I'll call it a night. :)

I've mentioned before that I love JJ Heller's album, When I'm With You. In her song, "Olivianna," (which is, of course, about death) there are the lines:

You're going home love
Where you belong

I've heard the song many, many times, but I really heard those words for the first time the other day. I think, so often, that Judah and my other two babies are supposed to be here, with me - that here is where they belong. And it's true - we do belong with those we love. They do belong with me. And that, of course, is why their absence is so painful. But we are all only here temporarily. And soon we are all going home to be with the One we love, and the One who loves us. So, they are now home where they have always belonged. And one day, someday, whenever my last day comes, I will be too.

**********

I'm so very glad that no matter what our gravestones look like a hundred years from now there is Someone who knows us all by name.

Good Words

As most of you already know, I am a big fan of blogs. I love them. I read them pretty much daily. And I'm always up for checking out a new blog that someone (anyone) recommends or links to. Because of this, I've followed an increasing number over the course of the last few years. Several months ago I realized that it was all becoming a bit too much time-wise. I simply couldn't keep up with all of them, and even trying to keep up required more time than I felt comfortable spending. So I drastically cut the list of blogs I check regularly to those you see linked on the side of my page. I still "drop in" on a few others from time to time, but I definitely don't try to read every single post.

Those linked to the left, however, are my current favorites. And most of them have been my favorites for a long time. I deliberately set the Blogger gadget to list when each of these blogs is updated because I look forward to reading them so much, and I love to see a status that lets me know there's a new post ready to read. One of my long-time favorites is called The Flourishing Mother. I'm not sure exactly when I first started following Andrea, but it was definitely several years ago. I thoroughly enjoy all of her thoughts on mothering and life in general (as well as her lists of weekend reads!). She is full of wisdom, and I appreciate her "realness" and transparency, as well as the humble, faithful heart that is clearly evident in her steady and deliberate pursuit of excellence in all she does.

I've always loved how blogs provide a glimpse into others' thoughts and perspectives, and over the course of time I love that I can come to "know" someone I will almost certainly never meet. What a blessing that is - to not be completely limited by geography or time or life stage or even differences in personality in our opportunities to "hear" each other! I have never met Andrea and most likely never will, but I feel as if she is a part of my community in many ways, and I'm grateful for her and her words in my life. Recently Andrea wrote a poem and posted it to her blog, and I've seriously read it over and over and over again. It has been a great encouragement to me, and it seems to sum up so much of what my life is about right now. I'm always thankful for words of hope, and I know many of you are too, so here are Andrea's words from a day back in May**:

Bare empty sticks
become
lush fragrant
in due time.

Things are Always Changing.
The Way I Feel Now
Will not last forever.

God is constantly changing Nature.
But He never does.
He stays the Same.

We do not stay hidden in the tight bulb.
We are let out to bloom
To have new life
To Change
to Become
lush, fragrant
not always
Bare, Empty Sticks.


Amen. Thank you, Andrea! And thank you, God, for your promise to make everything new.

**Reposted with permission.

From The Middle of While We Were Yet

Pregnant.

One tiny word in one tiny test stick window. We'd given up on the squinting, doubt-filled, is-that-a-second-line-or-isn't-it kinds of tests years ago, even before Eden. The digital tests are more expensive, but they remove the uncertainty, the questions.

Pregnant. That's what I was, not just three months ago, but also a week ago. I'd already had some suspicious symptoms, but it took the test to completely convince me. Pregnant for the fourth time.

And then the next day,

I wasn't.

Again.

Sometimes I wonder why I post the things I do on this blog. Sometimes I wonder if I will look back in several years when I'm older and hopefully wiser and regret what I've put here. Or, if not regret it, at least shake my head at my choices. I wonder if being honest and open in the moment is the right way to go. Maybe the right thing to do is to wait till it's passed, wait till the depression is conquered, the sadness and grief is overcome, the victory is won, to share the experience. Then, with the perfect clarity of hindsight, I can tell the story the way it should be told, with the emphasis on the end, not the middle, on the glory, not the pain. I wonder this often, especially now, when the "middleness" of my story is so very obvious. I don't want to do myself or my family a disservice. And I especially don't want to diminish the power or glory or goodness of God. He deserves all praise. Always.

But I find myself compelled to come here again and again and again. Partially, probably, it's a release to give words to my experience and these posts may very well be stepping stones in the healing process. But I honestly think it's more than that. I come here, and I lay it all out for all eyes to see because I know this is the middle and not the end, and I want everyone to know not only that I have been redeemed but what I have been redeemed from.

Because this, this right here: the anger and the doubt and the sadness and the questioning and the struggle is what the Good News is for. This is it. This is where faith is made real and where all the Sunday school lessons and Bible studies find their purpose. If I can't speak of these experiences in the hour of their agony then my God is not the God of the lepers and the barren, of tears and sweat like drops of blood. But He is! He is exactly that. Time and time again He reveals it. He is the God of the broken and diseased, the outcasts, the confused, the doubters and liars and betrayers and sinners one and all. My God is the One who came not for the healthy, but for the sick. My faith is real and strong not because one day it will be easy and happy. It is real and strong because of this very moment when it is not easy and not happy - it is this moment for which it exists. And, I think, maybe, it is this moment when it is most powerful.

This morning in church we sang Chris Tomlin's The Wonderful Cross, and the words just kept repeating over and over and over again in my mind. Oh the wonderful cross! Oh the wonderful cross! Oh the wonder of a God who created the heavens and commands the angels, but who, even greater and more amazingly, chooses to pour His glory into the darkest moments of agony and pain and shame. The God of the dead and the dying. Oh the wonder of a God who fulfills His glory in the weakest things of this world, in the weakest moments of our lives - not just once they have become strong, but in the very midst of their weakness.

I have now had 3 miscarriages in 4 years. My brokenness is undeniable, my frailty and limitations haunt me. I am weak, and I am full of sin, and I am struggling in so many ways. Sometimes I think, in every way. And I am determined to put this all out there for everyone to see because I want everyone to know the God who is the God of this moment - the ugly middle - and the God of me - the confused, angry, depressed me. He is a God worth knowing. He is a God worth trusting.

"But God demonstrates His own love toward us,
in that while we were yet sinners,
Christ died for us."
(Romans 5:8)

The Path Before Me

I should state right now that I found the above images on a blog belonging to a friend of a friend. I haven't yet asked her where she found them or even made sure that it is okay for me to post them on my blog as well. This is a COLOSSAL BLOGGING FAIL. I just want to admit that up front.

I've been thinking a lot about that second image especially lately. It seems like a perfect depiction of my emotional life since February 19th. An excruciating game of king of the hill in which each subsequent emotion is not eradicated, but simply displaced by the tyranny of the next. Disbelief dethroned by yearning, then anger, then depression, then ultimately (I hope) by acceptance. Grief is not linear and every experience is unique, but oh. Twelve months. Please, Lord, don't let it take twelve months.

It has definitely been nice to feel some of the anger dissipating. It is not completely gone by any means, but somehow, somewhere, at sometime, a great deal of it was swept out, and I was able to recognize a moment of peace. But... now the clouds have rolled back together, the sky has closed, and darkness has descended. I've looked at the world around me and I've thought, I know this darkness. I know this darkness. Please, Lord, not again.

I thought - I honestly thought - it would be easier this time. I thought, we've done this before. We're in a better place. It will hurt, but not like before. But I was wrong. It hurts, just like before. And, perhaps not just because of the miscarriage, perhaps because of all the change: the moving and the trying to make new friends and the trying to adapt to new roles in life, in addition to the miscarriage and my hurting family - perhaps because of all of it, the depression seems so much worse this time. It reminds me, not of my experience following the first miscarriage, but of the horrible swamp of sadness** that was my life just a few years previous to that. I feel the weight of it pulling me down, and I know what lies at the bottom of that pit, and I don't want to go back there again.

And, Lord willing, I won't. Because I know what this darkness is, and I've defeated it once before, and I am not alone. Peter and I have had many talks lately about how I'm doing. About how we're doing. He knows too, and he cares, and this time I'm not afraid to be honest from the beginning. I'm not afraid of the options, of the tools available to us, and I'm considering them all. And this time I know what I didn't really know before - what I didn't truly learn until the days immediately following our first miscarriage - how very, very much I am loved.

But I feel broken too. Not brokenness as we pray for in church (although I suppose I feel a measure of that too), but broken as in, Does Not Work. Malfunctioning. Useless. I wake up and I feel no joy and I work with all my might to perform my roles of mother and wife and friend to the best of my ability, and I pray for endurance, and I pray for grace, and I pray for forgiveness. And I just keep mechanically putting one foot in front of the next. Wash this dish, dry that tear, smile, try to pay attention, try to listen, try not to fall apart here, breathe. And in my mind the lies about my value and my worth and my purpose bounce back again and again and again despite my attempts to slap them away. And I feel like I'm playing a game of ping-pong against a brick wall, and every day I feel weaker. Tired. Too tired and so overwhelmed.

And yet... the hope remains. It still endures. I know, I can't stop knowing, how much I am loved. I have not forgotten. And even as I fail more and more, and perhaps fall more and more, I feel His love. I feel His acceptance of me. I feel His gentle encouragement. He is not ashamed of me. He is not ashamed of my grief. He is not anxious or afraid of the present or the future.

I was created for Him, and He holds me, broken, and He is not disappointed.

So, as I struggle through another day, I remember. As I run my emotions dry on the treadmill, I remember. As I stand in front of the mirror and fight back the tears of disgust and dislike, I remember.

I remember my affliction and my wandering,

the bitterness and the gall.
I well remember them,
and my soul is downcast within me.
Yet this I call to mind
and therefore I have hope:
Because of the LORD’s great love we are not consumed,
for his compassions never fail.
They are new every morning;
great is your faithfulness.
I say to myself, “The LORD is my portion;
therefore I will wait for him.”
The LORD is good to those whose hope is in him,
to the one who seeks him;
it is good to wait quietly
for the salvation of the LORD.
(Lamentations 3:19-26)

I remember, and I won't forget. The spark of hope is in me yet, the light of His love burns in my heart even still, I have seen His miracles, and by His grace I still believe.

The path of the righteous is like the morning sun, shining ever brighter till the full light of day. (Proverbs 4:18)

Posts that have given me hope this week:
Peter's Easter Sermon
Just Breathe
When Christians Ask Why


**And yes, that is a reference to The NeverEnding Story. Because it's God's grace (and even humor) through the little things that is helping me get through. :)

Just Some More Thoughts

So. It is a new day. It is also Day 32 since our miscarriage. We are still okay. In fact, there are times that I would even dare to say we are good. That being said, I have been disappointed to find that the anger and the temptation to bitterness have lingered on, seemingly indefatigable reminders that all is not well in our world. For a long while the anger made me feel guilty and confused. I felt confused because I still couldn't identify the source for my anger (at least not in such a way that I could then rationally talk myself out of it) and guilty because anger is supposed to be such a bad emotion and its presence in my heart felt like a charge against me, a red flag that I am, in fact, a bad person. Worse, I hated (and felt even greater guilt over) the way that it would not stay contained in my heart, but would instead periodically erupt from within, spewing pain all over those around me - often those I love best and care about the most. I mentioned several times to Peter and other close friends that I thought there should be a time of confinement for those who are grieving, just as there used to be for women advanced in pregnancy in previous centuries. I want a safe place where I could hide away and work through my grief honestly but without the constant fear of hurting innocent bystanders in the process.

Despite my wishes, this place of isolation has not materialized. But for the most part I have ceased to feel so guilty and confused. Many mornings I would wake up, feel a sense of being physically unwell, and start running through a mental checklist: do I have a headache? a stomachache? What do these feelings add up to? And I would repeatedly come to the same diagnosis for the lump in my stomach or the vice in my chest or the ache between my shoulder blades: it's anger. I'm just angry. Somehow, in some strange way, this initial recognition of physical symptoms (instead of emotion) helped. After all, when we are recovering from a sprained ankle, do we blame ourselves for the swelling, or the redness, or the pain? Anger remains a frustrating reminder of this wound in my heart, but it has lost much of its power in being reduced to just a symptom. On those mornings when I recognize its presence I have stopped focusing my energy on trying to eradicate the emotion and have instead prayed for grace: that in my anger I would not sin. And instead of guilt and confusion I feel a form of peace and a capacity to endure.

***

The other night, in yet another attempt to delay her bedtime, a pajama-ed Eden curled up in my lap and requested a story. Tired and not particularly wanting to read the same picture book for the thousandth time, I suggested that she ask her dad to tell her a Bible story. She did and he, of course, obliged, choosing the story of Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego. He described how the three men refused to worship the god created by King Nebuchadnezzar and as a punishment were bound together and thrown into a fiery furnace. And then he told of the miracle: how King Nebuchadnezzar looked into the furnace and saw not three, but four men walking unbound and unharmed in the midst of the fire - and how the King described the fourth man as looking like "a son of the gods."

Honestly? Sitting, listening to that story, all I could think was: how odd.

How odd that God would choose to demonstrate His deliverance in such a way. Why did He let the men be thrown into the furnace in the first place? Why did He wait so long to demonstrate His power? If He was going to save them from this death, why did He do it in the middle of the fire? Why didn't He stop it from ever getting that far?

***

Then later in the week I found myself reflecting on the season of Lent in which we now find ourselves. I was thinking about how it is supposed to be a time of sorrow and repentance. And my mind wandered to the fact that it also in a small way supposed to be a time of knowing Christ through "the fellowship of sharing in His sufferings."

And suddenly, I wanted to laugh.

What sufferings? What suffering does the God of the universe endure? What suffering can be experienced by the One who is, and is surrounded by, Love, Truth, Beauty, Joy, Peace: everything I long for and am drawn to? What sufferings?

Mine. All mine.

***

So. It is a new day. I wake up and I recognize that though things are better they are not yet well. I pick up the burden of my sorrow, of my grief. I say a prayer that I would not succumb to the anger and bitterness that day or even just that moment. I look out the window at a Spring that is not what it was supposed to be, and I shoulder my suffering and I look for my deliverance.

And I don't know why He waits. I don't know why He doesn't step in to set things right sooner. I don't understand.

But if I'm going to trust someone, anyone, how can I help but trust Him? The One who gave up Heaven, gave up everything that I wish I had, to come down and share in my suffering. The One who sat with me, just me, in an apartment bathroom and grieved. The One who over and over again, for our sake, exchanges not sadness for joy, but the other way around. The One who made deliverance possible when He gave up immortality for a mortal body and then suffered poverty, racism, oppression, rejection, betrayal, and death.

It doesn't make any sense to me. I do not understand. But He is present with me in the fire. And I am free.

For All Those Who Make Their Home in Tornado Alley

I'm just posting the lyrics to this song because I love it. I love most Hem songs actually. They make me happy. Or sad sometimes but in a happy way.

Funnel Cloud by Hem

Clapboard on the houses
Clothesline threading through
Holding down the corners of
The field where we grew

Off on the horizon
The same thing everyday
Until a painted backdrop rises up
And blows the world away
Blows your world away

Carry off the blankets
And carry off the trees
The light you've seen can touch you now
And change the way you see
And change the way you see


I know I've said it already, but I really love this song.

Checking In

I realize that the last post was a bit of a downer in a way, and even though I really don't have much to write tonight, I wanted to check in just to say that we are doing okay. And I mean okay in the best sense. Okay is quite good enough right now.

The last few days have been rough on my family. I'm not ready to get into the details at the moment, but as I mentioned before, our miscarriage has not been the only thing to grieve in the last two weeks. Right now, it is my brother who is really hurting, and of course, in whatever way we can, we are all hurting with him. Yesterday was an especially significant and difficult day. I thought I was prepared for it, but I was caught off guard by how hard it was to see my oldest brother, in many ways my childhood idol, suffering his own huge loss. I want to take his pain away, make his tomorrows easy and carefree, but I can't. And suddenly, with the burden that these last few days have brought, I feel myself bottoming out: the mental and emotional reserves nearing empty, my physical reserves following close behind. I had hoped to avoid this - I was trying to muster enough strength/energy/positive thoughts/I-don't-even-know-what everyday to keep my brokenness as neat and managed as possible. Yet now I feel my control slipping, and I worry that I am about to come all unraveled. I wonder what coming unraveled will mean in my life as it is to date - as a mother and a pastor's wife, as a new and old friend, and as a daughter and sister in a family that has really had quite enough lately, thank-you-very-much.

Strangely, (or perhaps not-so-strangely considering my Eeyore tendencies) one of my favorite books when I was a child was a rather slow-moving and depressing novel called Izzy, Willy-Nilly by Cynthia Voigt. (Cynthia Voigt is the Newberry Award-winning author of the more well-known Dicey's Song, which I also read as a child but didn't like at all.) In this story, a young girl by the name of Izzy (Isobel) is badly injured in a car accident and is forced to reform her understanding of self and others as she heals from her injuries and adapts to a new and vastly different life. Isobel often pictures a miniature version of herself in her head - and this miniature Izzy acts as an interpreter, both to the reader and perhaps to the main character herself, of Isobel's true emotions. I've always thought this was a very unique and interesting device on the part of the author for communicating information about how her character was feeling/developing without stating it overtly. And anyway, it has always stuck with me.

If there were a miniature Stephanie (ha! a mini-me!) in my head, I'm not sure that she would be doing too well right now. While spiritually I think I'm still holding strong for the most part, as I've stated already, mentally, emotionally, and physically I feel like I'm reaching the bottom of the barrel. Tonight, on the drive home from the city where my brother is still hospitalized, I had a sudden flashback to that story of the miniature Izzy. And in my mind I saw my own little miniature self - the one who I like to think has been shakily standing for the last couple of weeks - now lying bent over on the floor, too tired to even raise her head.

We are doing okay. We really are. And I still believe that one day, perhaps even not so far off, we all will be doing better than okay. I think we will be doing good.

I think we will be good.

But for now, we are okay.

Take Two

Well, this is not the photo post that I intended to put here.

Some very big life news had not made it on this blog yet. We found out right before Thanksgiving that we were going to have another baby! We held off announcing anything until we could tell my family in person at Christmas, and then we waited a little longer until we had passed the 12 week mark and were solidly into the second trimester. A few weeks ago we had the joy of announcing our good news at church and to our farther-flung friends over facebook. Since pretty much everyone who reads this blog is a friend of mine on facebook (as far as I know) it actually didn't immediately occur to me to post the news here - and when it did, I thought maybe I would just wait a few more weeks until we had the Big Ultrasound where you find out gender and then roll all the news into one big happy post.

Unfortunately, this past Friday at my routine appointment we found out that our baby's heart had stopped beating. I thought we had passed all the worry-points: the first trimester when the vast majority of miscarriages happen and the 14/15 week mark when our first miscarriage occurred. I had even thought I'd started feeling movement in the previous week and was in fact, sure that I'd felt the baby move just a day or two before. Friday morning I saw a few faint drops of blood after using the restroom first thing in the morning. (So sorry for what is almost certainly too much information.) It caused me some anxiety as my first miscarriage began the same way and as I've had no other bleeding of any kind in this or any other pregnancy. However, some spotting is supposedly not uncommon throughout pregnancy, and as all other trips to the restroom that morning resulted in no additional spotting (which was not true during my first miscarriage), I was able to keep my worry in check. I mentioned it to Peter and he was mildly concerned but not really worried and we headed off to my OB appointment.

We knew this should just be a quick, routine appointment: get in to see the doctor, hear the heartbeat, ask any questions we might have, and go on our way. The only real question I had was about the spotting I had seen earlier that morning, so I mentioned it to the doctor right off the bat as he was pulling over the Doppler device to listen for the heartbeat. He asked a few follow-up questions but didn't seem overly concerned, just as I had expected. I laid back and prepared to hear the heartbeat that would be the real reassurance I needed.

It didn't come. He patiently moved the device back and forth over my stomach and once caught the sound of my own pulse but even I could tell the difference. I remember at one point that he said he thought he heard movement. He asked if it had been hard to find the heartbeat before. It hadn't. He said that sometimes they can just be tricky to find and that he would go start the ultrasound machine so that we could see the baby and the heart. At the very end he caught my eye and quickly stated that he wasn't worried.

I didn't really believe him. I was pretty sure he was just saying that to try to make me feel better, but I tried to accept it and tried to believe it. Maybe there wasn't a reason to worry. Maybe this was just all going to be a good story - a little scary bleeding in the morning, followed by an appointment where it was hard to hear the heartbeat - just a good story for demonstrating the certain orneriness of any child of ours. I even tried to quickly cheer myself up with the thought that maybe this would be a chance to find out the gender 3 weeks early. It didn't really work. When the doctor left the room I tried to choke back some sobs as Peter patted me on the back. We didn't talk, just waited for the ultrasound.

Almost as soon as our baby was on the screen I knew something was wrong. He looked beautiful - we could clearly see so many features that had developed since our first ultrasound. But he was completely still, not a finger moved. And I knew that wasn't right. We silently watched the screen as the doctor tried different methods for checking the heart and bloodflow. I'm not sure exactly what the first thing he said was or when he said it, but I heard his, "I'm sorry," loud and clear and immediately put my hand over my face and sobbed. Peter held my other hand. I managed to pull it together and listened as the doctor discussed the next possible steps. I remember I asked him if he was absolutely sure. He said he was and then very carefully walked me through everything he could see with the ultrasound that proved beyond a shadow of a doubt that our baby was no longer alive.

The next hour or so was the roughest. We made plans to drop Eden off at my brother's house in St. Louis and then head back to check into the hospital for the induction. We had the choice of waiting, but Peter didn't want to, and considering our last experience, I certainly couldn't blame him. The doctor left the ultrasound room to give us some privacy, and I sobbed some more. Eden asked why mommy was sad, and Peter told her that we were sad because we found out the baby was gone and that we weren't going to get to see it or hold it soon. We had a family hug and she patted my head and kept asking me if I was sad. She asked this a few more times in the van on the way to St. Louis with a few more questions about the baby being gone. At one point she told me not to be sad - that I could have another baby soon. She was so surprisingly gentle and sweet for a toddler who couldn't possibly really understand what was going on, and her presence was a great comfort to me.

We dropped Eden off with my sister-in-law and were in the process of trying to figure out how to break the news to my mom when she called to inform us that my older brother had been involved in an accident and was in the hospital having surgery on his foot which had been badly damaged. As terrible as it might sound, this additional bad news had one good effect in that it snapped me out of a world that had rapidly shrunk down in the previous hour to the size of my own individual pain. I felt overwhelmed but also as if I could breathe and think again. I guess it gave me some needed perspective.

I don't want to drag this story on forever. We checked into the hospital. Everyone was very kind. At around 5 pm they started the induction process. Our baby boy was born at 1:44 am Saturday morning. Peter and I got to spend a few minutes holding him for which I was very grateful. Our doctor arrived to assist with the end of delivery and then we got a couple hours of sleep. We checked out of the hospital at around 10:30 am that morning, went home to shower, and then headed to St. Louis to see my mom and Eden. Today we are all home together again in our new house.

Just as before, except for those first few horrible hours, the real pain is only now slowly beginning. There's something about the initial activity that helps keep the pain back. You're distracted, focused on the needs at hand. But now I'm home and there's not a single thing to do that involves my baby. It's life as usual except for the huge gaping wound that is me in the midst of it.

We named him Judah St. John. That has been his name all along so it wasn't a hard decision. Back in the fall as another month passed in which we didn't get pregnant (we had been trying, yet again, for over a year), I had stood at the bathroom mirror and wondered almost absently to myself if we would ever have another baby. And it was almost as if I heard another voice in my head reply, "Yes. You will have a son, and you will name him Judah." I wondered if it was just me talking myself, a sort of internal pep talk. Judah seemed like kind of a strange name though, a bit out of the blue. I had always loved the story of the naming of Judah in the Bible, but he was also a bit of a notorious character - not necessarily someone you would want to name your child for. I mentioned it to Peter, and we both kind of thought, well, we'll see if it's even a boy... But over the course of my pregnancy we both started to think of the baby as a boy and as Judah, and every time someone made a guess as to gender, they also always guessed boy.

Judah means praise. In Genesis 29:31-35, you can find the beginning of his story. Leah, a woman whose husband does not love her, gives birth to four sons in a row. The first three she gives names that all have meanings connected to her hope that her husband will now love her for what she has given him. But on the birth of her fourth son, she states, “This time I will praise the LORD.” So she named him Judah. For some reason, even as a child I loved this story. I loved that Leah stopped trying to earn her husband's love and just decided to praise God for what he had given to her. I loved that it was out of the line of Judah that Jesus was born. Out of praise came Redemption. Out of praise came Love.

We had tossed around ideas for middle names, but had trouble coming up with anything that seemed to fit with Judah. At one point, I suggested we choose the name of someone we admired. Peter suggested St. John, which I thought was kind of neat, since the Apostle John (who refers to himself as the "disciple Jesus loved" in his own Gospel and who wrote some of the greatest words on Love in his epistles) is one of my favorite New Testament characters. But Peter was actually thinking of the famous Christian mystic, St. John of the Cross, who wrote the poem, Dark Night of the Soul. We kind of liked the way the two names sounded together although we knew they were both pretty unusual and together might just be a bit too much. Now they both just seem perfect to me - perfect to the situation, perfect to our son.

I don't really know what else to write at this point. Peter is home from work, I need to wake Eden up from her nap. We need to get dinner ready, wash dishes, do laundry. At some point I really need to get some more unpacking done.

We won't be putting together a nursery now. I have no idea what the future holds but can't imagine a situation in which a nursery would be of any use for well over a year at the very least. I don't say this out of some sort of gloomy negativity, but it is always possible that we may never have another need for a nursery. That's something that my heart, for its own protection, needs to remain open to.

Overall, we are in a better place that we were the last time this happened. We know what to expect. As much as anyone can, I know the road that lies before me. I hate it. I do. I so hate to be here again, to keep waking up to this same nightmare, this same grief, this same weight. But, I also have a tired, battered confidence that we will make it through. We will take one step after the next. We will bear it. And there will be a day when I will wake up and my first thought, my first very sensation, won't be of what I have lost.

I don't want to go on too long. I know people who have suffered much more than me and who have been and are so beautifully graceful in their grief. That is not me. I don't have any great or profound thoughts. I just want to get up and do the best I can with this moment. And the moment after that. And the moment after that. I know I am not alone. I know my Savior is with me. Sometimes He feels very close. More often right now, honestly, He feels a bit remote. But we've been down this road before together, and I trust Him. I know who He is. I know He loves me. He has not left me now. I know it is His mercies that get me through every moment. And I'm so thankful for that and thankful for what He will yet do.

25 Things (I Don't Want You To Know) About Me

I have been feeling so very imperfect lately.

No matter how hard I try, no matter how sincere and well-meaning my desires and actions are, not matter how determinedly I push myself, what I accomplish seems only mediocre at best. The out-and-out failures I try not to think about. Worse, it seems to be happening everywhere - in my relationships, in my day-to-day work, in my role as mother, wife, daughter, sister, friend, pastor's wife, Christian.

It has been an unsettling and discouraging time, especially for someone who is so task-oriented, so prone to measuring her value based on the shininess of her accomplishments. Regardless of my efforts and my intentions, mediocre does not feel good enough.

In the bleakness of this mental landscape, I find hope and encouragement and reassurance in the realness of others. In fact, it seems that the older I get the greater and greater value I place on sincerity, openness, and authenticity. I see so many women who encourage and inspire me - in the world at large and in the smaller world of my own life and community - and without exception a hallmark of these beautiful souls is their willingness to be real. To be imperfect. To even dare to laugh about their imperfections.

One of my current favorite blogs is Inspired to Action. I love this blog, I love what it's about, and I love how it does, in fact, inspire me to action. (And people, as you know, I am basically Eeyore in human form. Have you ever seen Eeyore inspired to do anything? Exactly. Thus, what this blog does is awesome and you should all add it to your feeders right now.)

One of my favorite posts from this blog was entitled, Real Motherhood: The Things I Don't Want You To Know About Me. I love reading blogs, and especially at this time in my life, I love reading blogs written by other moms. But as Kat (the author of Inspired to Action) states,

It’s easy, when reading about other people, to think, "Wow. They eat all organic foods, have a family fun night EVERY night, homeschool, take European vacations, wear the latest fashions, go on family mission trips, run marathons together, make their own all-natural cleaning supplies and have never forgotten their kid at school. I’m such a loser."

So. True.

In fact, I'm pretty sure I've thought almost each of these things and felt discouraged about myself and my life as a result. And that's when I need to remember, AGAIN, that the people who inspire me most aren't, in fact, the people who seem to be accomplishing all of the above. Nope, the ones who inspire me the most, the ones who make me actually want to be a better person, are the people who aren't afraid to be fully real in every situation. Not that they are constantly sharing their every thought or feeling, but that they aren't faking who they are and what their life is really about, for better or for worse. I think I am inspired because they are unafraid. Or, if they're afraid, they have the courage to be real anyway. And that gives me the courage to do the same.

Besides, as Meg Ryan's character, Kathleen Kelly, states in one of my all-time favorite movies, You've Got Mail,

"What's so wrong with being personal anyway? Whatever else anything is, it ought to begin by being personal."

This is exactly the sentiment I'm trying to express when I talk about being real. Whatever we do or say in this life, what value does it have if it doesn't begin with being real?

I'm getting long-winded, as I always do.

But, in honor of all the people in my life who have inspired and encouraged me, not by being perfect, but by being real, here are 25 Things (I Don't Want You To Know) About Me:

1. I only clean my house when it is visibly dirty. I have grand aspirations of setting up some kind of cleaning schedule where everything gets cleaned on a regular basis despite it's appearance, but yeah... so far, those have just remained aspirations.
2. I am an extreme introvert. That means that no matter how much I like you, no matter how much fun we have together, no matter how great of a person I truly think you are, at the end of the day, I'm always happy to go home. I worry that this makes me a bad friend.
3. I frequently catch myself being very jealous of extroverts.
4. I haven't been to the dentist in 5 years.
5. I'm usually suspicious of people with strong political opinions. But because I don't have strong political opinions of my own, I end up not being a very actively engaged citizen.
6. As a senior in high school I was supposed to go to some sort of fancy lunch for being a good student. My parents didn't think the outfit I picked out was formal enough so they put something together for me to wear out of my mom's closet. I couldn't bear the thought of being seen in front of my peers in the clothes they had selected, so I stopped on the way to school and changed into a different outfit in a grocery store bathroom. Then, after school, I scrunched up the outfit they chose so it would look like I had worn it and threw it into the hamper. This is probably the single most rebellious thing I ever did as a child. (I know, right?) I didn't feel guilty about it.
7. I once accidentally killed a duck when I was in grade school. That, I still feel terrible about.
8. The first time I took the test to get a driver's license, I failed. Why? Because I went straight through an intersection from a left-turn-only lane.
9. There are many days, more than I would like to count, where I find myself looking at Eden and thinking, I have no idea how to be a good mom to you.
10. I absolutely, positively hate to be the center of attention.
11. When I get nervous, my throat tightens up, so when I talk it sounds like I'm going to cry. Combine #10 and #11 and you get a lot of meetings where I sound like I am much more emotionally involved in what I'm saying than I actually am. This embarrasses me to no end.
12. I've never learned how to parallel park.
13. Sometimes I pull up Cookie Monster's Monsterpiece Theater videos on YouTube to entertain Eden. I like them more than she does.
14. I have never, ever been able to figure out hair and makeup.
15. Lilo and Stitch makes me cry.
16. I don't really like classical music. I feel like I'm supposed to, but I just... can't.
17. I also don't like to watch professional basketball because I think the players have freakish bodies, and it weirds me out.
18. On the other hand, I have really ugly feet.
19. I am strongly lacking when it comes to coordination or a sense of rhythm. Clapping and singing at the same time can be hard for me.
20. And, while we're at it, I can't sing - I'm probably just a step or two above tone deaf. I console myself with the thought that at least I know I can't sing, so I won't ever end up on the gag reel of American Idol.
21. #10+#11+#19+#20 = Karaoke is my living nightmare.
22. I have a very strong sense of responsibility, so when it comes to big decisions I feel compelled to carefully research and consider every option. At the end of this process, I usually am so overwhelmed by mental pro/con lists that I just end up hoping that someone else will make the decision for me. My friend calls this Paralysis by Analysis.
23. I mostly grew up out in the country with two older brothers and no female neighbors anywhere close to my age. We also changed schools a lot. Thus, to this day I have a very hard time figuring out how to develop close friendships with other women.
24. I wasn't able to figure out what "Y2K" stood for until January 1st, 2000.
25. I excel at being thorough but am absolutely terrible at anything that requires efficiency. Thus, most other people can accomplish 2 or 3 times what I can accomplish in the same amount of time. Of all the imperfections I've listed, this is probably the one that bothers me the most.

And you know what?

This list could have been a lot longer.

But I'm learning to be okay with that.

P.S. Sorry about the whole outfit-switcheroo, mom!

The In-between

So, how do you go about summing up the change from one life to another in a silly little blog post?

I would really like to know.

On June 28th, just a little over three weeks ago, I stood on Californian soil (or, you know, on the concrete with which it is covered) and looked at the spot on our living room floor where Eden took her first steps. I thought about bringing her home from the hospital to that apartment. About the corner where her bassinet used to stand by our bed. I remembered working on my master's degree at the table, typing papers and completing assignments in the early hours of many mornings. I remembered friends coming over to celebrate the completion of my degree and my first job as an official librarian. We decorated sugar cookies. And we were with the same friends in the same apartment at the same table when I carved my first pumpkin. I looked at the kitchen and recalled the night I chased Pudge around that room with a Kleenex box stuck on his head, carefully cradling a sleeping baby in one arm, knowing even then that it was one of those moments that would be very funny later. And I looked at the little bathroom that stood, tucked across the hall from our door and remembered sadness and fear and the grief that came with my first real loss. So many life-changing events and daily ordinariness all bundled up together in one little space.

Today I am sitting in another little apartment. It is new to me. I look out the window and see a beautiful tree, green leaves bobbing and swaying in the breeze. It is beautiful, and I'm thankful for it and glad to see it, glad to live next to it. But it is also new. The van that I drive Eden to and from the park in is new. The park is new. It has two huge play structures and swings and a bicycling/running path and a little lake with geese (!). But the grass turns swampy after storms and the humidity drives us indoors after too long. That weather - the thunderstorms and the humidity and the gorgeous clouds - is new to us. New enough, at any rate. The town is new. I've found Target and the grocery stores but nothing is where I expect it and a surprising number of brands are missing or unfamiliar. Peter's job is new and our church is new and the people are WONDERFUL, but they are still strangers. Certainly not enemies, but somehow, still, not quite friends. Not yet.

I daily see little to dislike and so much to love and yet I find myself wanting to shed all this "new" and instead pull on the old comfy familiarity of my old home and my friends-whom-I-can-call-friends and my routines and my life. If only I could figure out where it is in this new home with everything put away but still out of place.

A friend recently posted the following quote on her facebook account: "There is no growth without change, no change without loss, and no loss without pain."

I sit quietly and think about that.

Outside the leaves keeps dancing and the grass is so thick and green. It is new yet. But I am still thankful for it. So thankful for the new and the old, for the growth and the change, for having once found things that are good enough to hurt when you lose them and for knowing that there is still more goodness yet to be found, here, in this new place.

10

Ten years ago today Peter and I got married.

He was 22 years old. I was 20.

At the time, I joked about our young age, saying that I agreed with Harry Burns, who declared, "When you realize you want to spend the rest of your life with somebody, you want the rest of your life to start as soon as possible." I really meant it though. I still really mean it.

There was no way we could possibly have known what we were getting into of course - what our marriage was going to look like for the next ten years. What our lives were going to look like for the next ten years.

A cross-country move.
An empty bank account.
A graduate degree.
A three-year depression.
The abandonment of one plan and the search for another (and another and another).
Another empty bank account.
Another graduate degree.
The loss of our first child.
The birth of our second.
A leap of faith - just one of so many really.

I've spent so much time thinking about what to say in this post, but the truth is, there is just no way to encapsulate these ten years: what they have meant to me and how they've made me a better person, a more whole person. And, I hope, a more real person. In fact, I glance at that very inadequate summery list above, and I almost want to chuckle. Because a lot of it looks kind of terrible. And a lot of it was kind of terrible. And there were many times when laughing seemed impossible.

But, man oh man, if there's one thing these ten years have pounded into my brain it's that there's hope for the hopeless.

We've been hopeless. We are hopeless. But Hope just keeps finding us anyway, again and again and again.

And I'm almost positive I never would have seen that without Pete.

He gets up every morning and takes care of me. He makes me laugh. He pushes me to consider what I never would have considered and to do what I never would have dreamed I could do. He makes me feel beautiful - even in this post-pregnancy, post-sleep, post-exercise body. He endures my selfishness. He bears my burdens. He offers me grace and courage and forgiveness. He assures me that I matter. He also assures me that I'm loved, always, always, always. He hopes for better things, with me and for me. He gives me both space and companionship and does his best to discern which one I'm needing at the moment. And when that's all said and done, he is still up for watching a chick flick, scrubbing the bathtub, or killing a spider.

Ten years ago today I was still very much in the transition from childhood to adulthood. And God gave me exactly what I needed. His love has poured its light and warmth on me everyday through the words and actions of one of His most beautiful and amazing creations.

And especially today, I am awed and humbled and deeply, deeply grateful for this miraculous gift.

Happy anniversary, Pete. Thank you for showing me what love really is. And thank you for these last ten years. They've been perfect.

Gethsemane

They went to a place called Gethsemane, and Jesus said to his disciples, "Sit here while I pray." He took Peter, James and John along with him, and he began to be deeply distressed and troubled. "My soul is overwhelmed with sorrow to the point of death," he said to them. "Stay here and keep watch."

Going a little farther, he fell to the ground and prayed that if possible the hour might pass from him. "Abba, Father," he said, "everything is possible for you. Take this cup from me. Yet not what I will, but what you will." - Mark 14:32-36 (NIV)


Do you know that experience where you read or hear something a million times and then one day you read/hear it again and all of a sudden notice something completely new?

I had that experience recently with regard to the above verse - specifically in the words that Jesus prays. I guess I only really payed attention to the "not what I will, but what you will" part before. I think I figured it was the part we were supposed to pay attention to. (It's also worth noting that the prayer is not recorded the same way across the four gospel books.)

Recently however, I was struck by the first two sentences of this prayer.

"Abba, Father, everything is possible for you."

True confessions? Sometimes I try to prop up my weak faith by making excuses for God. I tell myself that the reason that God doesn't answer all my prayers or the reason a horrible, evil thing is allowed to happen, is that God has put limitations on Himself in order to allow free will, or something along those lines. I am not a theologian and there are probably all kinds of things theologically wrong with that thought. But I honestly don't even need to hear those more educated reasons because deep down I already know this "excuse" is flawed. I know it, because I see evidence to the contrary every day. God thwarts the will of mankind all the time. The Bible is full of these stories.

In this prayer, Jesus, without any sort of disclaimer or conditional statements, claims all things as possible for God. And who would know better what God is capable of than God Himself?

But it's the pairing of that first sentence with the second that gets me.

"Take this cup from me."

Do you know what I see now when I read this passage of Scripture?

I see a dearly loved only child, coming to his father, in deep distress and agony. He knows the horror that awaits him in just a few short hours. He know his father knows too.

I know you can save me from this, he states. I'm asking you to save me from this.

What must Jesus have felt when praying that prayer? What must God the Father have felt in hearing it? And more, what must He have felt in answering it? Because we all know what answer He gave.

I read this prayer, and I think back through so many of the prayers I have prayed in my lifetime. I think in particular of some of the more desperate prayers, the ones where I felt deeply distressed and overwhelmed with sorrow. And I think of the pain and agony of not having that prayer answered by Someone I know had the power to save. He could have said yes. All things are possible for Him.

And now I read this prayer and I think, even in this, He went before me. Even this pain, for my sake, He knows.


Let us fix our eyes on Jesus, the author and perfecter of our faith, who for the joy set before him endured the cross, scorning its shame, and sat down at the right hand of the throne of God. Consider him who endured such opposition from sinful men, so that you will not grow weary and lose heart. - Hebrews 12:2-3 (NIV)

Thanksgivingfull

Let's see... where to begin. Oh, I might as well just lay it all out for you.

Prepare yourselves. This will be likely be long and tangenty and quite possibly ultimately unreadable.

Several years ago, back in 2004? 2005?, I went through a pretty rough depression. (Well, I should say, we went through a pretty rough depression. Peter might not have felt all of the same emotions, but he definitely still paid a lot of the cost.) We had been living in California for a couple of years at that point. Our "adventure" to the West Coast wasn't going quite like I'd planned. As it turns out, change is hard. And I was reeling from a lot of change - we'd left our family, most of our friends, a rural Midwestern culture, relative financial stability, and a lot of preconceived notions about marriage and God and purpose and probably a host of other things behind us. I was working in a job that I disliked and only accepted in a fit of anger and bitterness since it seemed like a last resort against complete financial implosion. It wasn't a good fit for me. I wasn't very good at it and was exhausted from trying to pretend that I was good at it or that I EVEN CARED about any of it at all. Peter was busy with school and internships and jobs and had an entirely separate community of friends from my own. I was tired and disillusioned and disappointed and miserable. And somewhere in the middle of it I lost the ability to see any part of my life or my future or especially myself with any perspective. Life was gray, tedious, tiresome. And I just wanted it to be over.

And man, it really was that bad. It might even have been a little worse.

Somewhere, somehow in the middle of all that mess - I don't know. I don't even know how to explain it. I got to the end of myself? And gave up? And then discovered that hey - there's Something bigger than me out there? And It's been sustaining me all along even when I thought I was holding myself together through a last desperate clutching of my own despairing will?

Even now, I keep starting sentences and then erasing them because I can't think of a way to explain how I got out of that pit. I know pieces of it. Peter loved me determinedly, relentlessly, unconditionally and slowly convinced me to talk to a counselor (I would only go if he came too), to at least consider seeing a doctor (I flatly refused for over a year), to do whatever it took to get healthy again. (And it took quitting my job while he was still in seminary, and I was the main source of income.) I also received love, support, and prayers from friends. Eventually, I abandoned my stubbornness (because really, what had it done for me?) and agreed to try some medication. And that helped. A lot. It didn't solve everything or "fix" me, but it stopped the freefall of my emotions and cleared my head enough so that I could make a grasp at some perspective, begin to separate truth from lies, and make the choices and changes that I needed to make. And I know for sure that in all these things, the Love and Grace of a God whom I had turned and walked away from because He didn't seem trustworthy, gripped me, surrounded me, patiently kept my head above water even as I was trying to drown, and then, when I finally gave up, ever so slowly and gently lifted me up and set my feet on dry, solid ground. And I know He did it not because I was so great but just because He loved me. Loves me.

***

There is a song that I've been listening to and thinking about for awhile. It's "What Sarah Said" by Death Cab for Cutie. If you haven't heard it before, I highly recommend that you find and listen to it sometime - it's a beautiful song. Here are the lyrics:

And it came to me then
That every plan is a tiny prayer to Father Time
As I stared at my shoes in the ICU
That reeked of piss and 409
And I rationed my breaths as I said to myself
That I'd already taken too much today
As each descending peak on the LCD
Took you a little farther away from me
Away from me

Amongst the vending machines and year-old magazines
In a place where we only say goodbye
It stung like a violent wind that our memories depend
On a faulty camera in our minds
But I knew that you were a truth
I would rather lose than to have never lain beside at all
And I looked around at all the eyes on the ground
As the TV entertained itself

'Cause there's no comfort in the waiting room
Just nervous paces bracing for bad news
Then the nurse comes around and everyone lifts their head
But I'm thinking of what Sarah said
That love is watching someone die

So who's going to watch you die
So who's going to watch you die
So who's going to watch you die

Anyway, like I said I've been thinking about this song a lot - about the truth of it - that love is watching someone die. And the thought that keeps coming back to me is that I've only watched one person die. And it was the hardest, most painful thing I've ever done. But what I can't get away from, what I can't stop thinking about, is that there is Someone who watches over every death. Every single one. From beginning to end, the famous, the lonely, and the forgotten. And He loves them all just like He loves me. More than I love my own child. And I've never even stopped to think about what that must cost Him.

***

This Thanksgiving I'm thankful for so many things. I really began this post with the intention of listing some of those things. I also meant to talk about how I've been feeling a bit low again lately, and how I've been afraid that I'm at the beginning of heading back down the path I described above, and the decisions that I'm trying to make about what to do about this, and the things that just this week have been disappointing and discouraging. And then I meant to write about all the good things that I have in my life that I'm so thankful for, and how also this week I've had opportunity to gain some perspective and realize just how blessed I really am. And despite the discouragement, I feel so hopeful.

Maybe I'll write more about those things later. Right now I just want to focus on being thankful for this one thing: for the Someone who loves all of us enough to be with us and watch over us as we die - in all the ways that we experience death - in our depression, or grief, or disappointment, or disillusionment - and ultimately, in our last breath. That alone is enough. My heart is full of thanksgiving.

Testing, Testing

Hello?

Is anyone out there? Did the great blog migration of 2009 conclude successfully or am I now writing into a void? Truth be told, when I compose my posts I often feel like I'm writing into a void - and I actually kind of like it that way. It gives the process that cathartic "dear diary" feeling. I just always have to go back and make sure that I didn't write anything too embarrassing before I publish the post. I figure if what I write passes the mom-check and boss-check, I'm golden.

So, I changed the blog name, url, and a little bit of the layout. What do you think? For those of you who normally read your blog posts like I do - straight from Google Reader - things might look pretty different from the last time you visited "in-person." I'm not too certain about the colors honestly - they seem a bit garish to me sometimes. But I also wanted something a little fun and upbeat. Plus, I can always change it later. (If you all hate it, let me know and that later can be a little sooner.)

I decided to change the name for a few basic reasons: 1) I'm starting a new chapter in my life which I'm partially celebrating (and recording) through renewed blogging endeavors, and I think new chapter+renewed blog=new blog name, 2) I decided I'd rather have a title that's a bit more anonymous, and 3) the old title was boring. I'm not the best at coming up with creative names though so I just scribbled down ideas as they came to me over a few days and then had Peter, and my friend Megan, give me feedback on what they liked best.

The chosen title comes from a favorite e.e. cummings quote, "The world is mud-luscious and puddle-wonderful." Now, you should know, poetry and poets are one of the greatest mysteries on earth to me. Seriously. I never understand poetry. And poets seem even more incomprehensible to me most of the time. Their brains just work in very different ways or something, I don't know. I mention this because I have no idea what mr. e.e. cummings really meant by his quote. It probably has some secret genius significance or symbolism that went right over my head. And that's fine. Because I've developed a very egocentric approach to poetry (and with all other art): in my opinion, at the end of the day, all that matters is what it means to me.

I am a person who looks at the world and sees a lot of mud and puddles. I like to say that I'm like Eeyore. (Peter says I'm really a mix of Eeyore, Rabbit, and Piglet, but Eeyore is lovable in his gloominess while Rabbit and Piglet are basically basket-cases most of the time, so I think I'll just stick with Eeyore, thank-you-very-much.) I will never be an optimist. It's just not in my nature. But all the same, I have a certain fascination with optimism. And hope - dear, sweet, precious, hope - is one of my favorite forms of grace. So while I'm okay with my mud puddle tendencies (well, some of the time), I truly want to be a person who sees beauty and joy and hope in the world around me too. This world is not as it should be, not as it was meant to be, but there is still a glory in it - not just in the mountains and stars, but also in the mud and the puddles. And that's where I am most of the time, down here in the dust and the dirt and the mud and the puddles. And I just don't want to miss the wonder of it.