First week of Advent: Hope

28
Nov

Yesterday was the beginning of Advent, the lead up to the big shindig: Christmas. Some people have been barely containing their excitement and now they can let it out, like this guy…

Most of us are probably a little more subdued about it.

Even so, Christmas receives a lot of attention. Wherever you may find yourself in relation to it, unless you plan to go on vacation to a very remote island, you’re going to find it hard to avoid for the next month.

Something that receives less attention, and which has been less commercialized is the season of Advent. Advent can be a beneficial time for all of us. It doesn’t have to even be connected to the sweet little 8lb baby Jesus laying in a manger wearing golden fleece diapers (did you see Talladega Nights like I did?), although the source of most of our modern Advent traditions come from a Christian practice.

Here’s the thing about Advent: it can be used as a way of resetting ourselves and zeroing the white balance (so to speak) on our priorities.

Each week has a different focus, and each one is something that most of humankind can get behind. Hope, love, joy, peace — these are at the heart of Advent, and I’d argue they’re at the heart of what it means to be human. Each of these values alone is powerful enough, but teamed together they’re transformative.

Or at least I hope so.

So, with the intention to post on each of the Advent themes, let’s turn our attention to hope.

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I think hope is a little like waiting for the mist to clear.

You can be walking along, your path one you’ve been on before, and then all of a sudden everything’s different. You can’t see the same vistas, and the air feels different, even smells different. You keep walking, just putting your foot down and trusting that the path hasn’t undergone the same shift. You know enough to be patient. You know enough to remember that this has happened before though it was so long ago it’s almost out of your memory.

You have reason to hope, even though the circumstances don’t communicate hopefulness.

Hope is a thing with feathers… ~Emily Dickinson

Sometimes the mist clears and you’re back on your merry way, the change temporary, merely a blip.

Other times, the mist clears and you find the landscape has morphed into something new and not entirely pleasant.

Ultimately the outcome doesn’t matter, because hope is the act of believing in the face of uncertainty. In some of the worst circumstances, it’s the possibility of change, the possibility of miracles, the possibility of a positive resolution that gives us strength to push forward. On the one hand, that has the potential to blind us to reality. Blind hope doesn’t always yield helpful perspective. But the presence of hope when things look dire, even just a glimmer, can give us just enough courage to get through to the next step…and then the next…and the next.

Listen (or: How did you know that?)

16
Sep

Do you have a good poker face? One that keeps people guessing? Some people are indeterminable, their expressions so blank you’re not entirely sure they’re breathing.

I’ve tried having such a poker face, but alas, I have failed. Even when I think I’m doing my best version of a poker face, my face decides otherwise. That’s why it was so funny to me when I had a conversation with a dear friend this week, and it went something like this…

Me: Blah blah blah, I have to talk to you about this thing, blah di blah. It’s been on my mind a long time, but I’ve been nervous to talk to you about it.

Friend: It’s about time.

Me: Huh?

Friend: (Trying not to look smug) Yeah. I’ve known there was something bugging you for a while but there just hasn’t been a good chance to really get into it.

[End Scene]

She knew already, or at least had an inkling about it. She could tell, even though I thought I was keeping a straight face and not letting on. I wasn’t trying to lie to her; I was simply trying to say nothing in either direction. But it was no use.

She was listening without me even talking.

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It was more than my friend having a feeling that something was on my mind. She stayed with me, hung in there, even when I wasn’t ready to talk about it. Then once I was ready to talk about it…

…she listened.

She let me talk and didn’t jump to conclusions about what I was saying. She asked questions so she’d understand what I meant. She gave me room to look for the right word and waited for me to find my way through a sentence.

…she listened, and though she didn’t know it, she underlined yet another proof of why we’ve been friends for almost 20 years. Her choice of response, one of grace and warmth, exemplified what I feared I would NOT receive from many people. This happy reaffirmation of her wonderfulness came on a topic I’ve held carefully to myself in fears that it would create a rift between us, and that there — well, that’s the clearest proof of the love of a friend that I can think of.

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A painted turtle and a Burial

25
Jun

Stay present. Don’t run, don’t let yourself be distracted. This is real. This is happening.

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The utility company did a number on the boulevard again this year,

Left saplings broken off at the waist, buzzsaw shredded kneecaps.

The heavy tires, unable to tiptoe over the earth wet from days of rain, left their double footprints through the grass.

Pass the field where they’re growing a cash crop of thistles, past the next field where the wheat’s coming in nice.

I round a corner and in the sun glare I see a turtle on the double yellow.

Frozen in the heat of day.

Don’t run. This is happening. Don’t be distracted. Pay attention.

Mowers whir in the distance, the breeze in the top of the pines mimics the sound of tires.

It’s a painted turtle; the inside edge of its shell is bright red, it’s neck adorned with yellow stripe, mimicking the road.

“Move.”

I speak to it, as though it can understand me, like my plants in the yard. I tap it with my toe, hold the dog back and balance device, water bottle and headphones, watching the road each way, ready for a car to make the decision for us.

“Move.”

Slowly I scoot it forward, against its will.

“Move it.”

It doesn’t want to go. It wants to stay in the middle of the road.

Stay present. Pay attention. This is real.

I gently shove it across the whole street and into the scrap that used to be grass along the side of the road. I continue my walk with the panting dog.

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This is real. Don’t run. Stay present. What just happened?

I don’t want to put you into the earth. I want to pretend you’ll come back. You’re on a long trip. You’re phone’s acting wonky but I’ll see you at the family thing next …insert thing here. You’re on vacation and there’s no service, but we’ll hear from you soon.

We won’t hear from you soon.

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I continue my walk to the halfway point and turn around.

When I get back to the spot, the turtle’s gone.

I check the grass, I check the ditch, I check the other side; it’s gone. It’s home.

Pay attention. This is real.

I don’t want to, but I must. The turtle is gone. It is safe. You are gone. You are safe.

I must keep walking.

This is real.

Lamenting and Loss

17
Jun

When bad things happen in the world, terrible things like the shooting at Pulse nightclub in Orlando, people tend to say that the world is broken or that we as humans are broken. I think they’re trying to put their finger on the fact that it feels so wrong. We feel pain, and the pain is alien — something that doesn’t belong. The idea goes that if grief was the way that things are supposed to be, it wouldn’t feel so terrible and bother us so much. It’s like when Oscar the Grouch from Sesame Street is happy when it rains, loves the stink of his garbage can, and enjoys trash that’s rotten or worn out. All of these things repulse us. If grief and loss and pain were the way things were designed to be, then wouldn’t we reasonably revel in those things?

But we don’t revel in those things, do we? Not most of us. We push back and resist, we call these things tragedies. We organize calls to action and we bring meals and we hold one another and we try to remember that this is not the norm.

We rebuild, we sign petitions, we rally for change. Then we slowly let down our guard and think the worst has past.

Then something else happens and we are forced to do it all over again.

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The thing is, there comes a time when we will all be faced with tragedy. If you haven’t faced it yet, you won’t get to avoid it forever. As much as I’d like to deny it, pain and loss are a part of the way things are. Distract yourself, numb yourself, busy yourself as much as you want in an attempt to pretend it isn’t true, but at some point the truth of pain will descend upon you.

In that time, it’s hard to know how to handle it, what to say or do, especially if the loss is close to you. It can be big or small, but if it feels big, then it is big. Brene Brown has something to say about that.

If there’s one thing I’ve learned over the past decade, it’s that fear and scarcity immediately trigger comparison, and even pain and hurt are not immune to being assessed and ranked. My husband died and that grief is worse than your grief over a empty nest. I’m not allowed to feel disappointed about being passed over for promotion when my friend just found out that his wife has cancer. You’re feeling shame for forgetting your son school play? Please — that’s a first world problem; there are people dying of starvation every minute. The opposite of scarcity is not abundance; the opposite of scarcity is simply enough…When you practice empathy and compassion with someone, there is not less of these qualities to go around. There’s more. Love is the last thing we need to ration in this world…Hurt is hurt, and every time we honor our own struggle and the struggles of others by responding with empathy and compassion, the healing that results affects all of us.

– Brene Brown, Rising Strong

A time of grief is not a time to offer clichés, it’s not a time to try and find reasons why it’s going to turn out ok, it’s not a time to throw around Bible verses willy nilly. It’s a time to sit with your friend in the dust with ashes on your head, and weep alongside him/her. Lament is something we’ve nearly forgotten about in the American church, and in so doing, we’ve lost a way of accessing deep truths and emotions, which is one reason we have grown wary of them in our services or our decision-making. We don’t trust our emotions, in part because we’re unfamiliar with more of them than “happy” or “sad”. Lament allows us to acknowledge the burning injustices of the world, the seeming inactivity of God, and the pain that comes with grief.

This is what we can do with our friends (even if we don’t know them) who have experienced such loss last week in Orlando. We can do this when our friend’s mother discovers cancer in her lung. We can do it on the anniversary of someone’s death. We can do it upon the announcement of someone’s divorce. We can put our arms around them, be quiet until they’re ready to speak, lament with them, and offer love.

The surprising thing is that one day in the future (there’s no saying how far into the future; grief is a unpredictable and untamable, insisting on it’s own time table that circles back and forth with little warning), there will come a time when the beauty of the world catches your friend guard. The mist will roll in across the field, the moon will rise, and the fireflies will blink in random patterns just frequently enough to know they’re real. In that moment, something will shift inside and a changed version of an old feeling will return, something like wonder and blessing combined with a familiar lacing of sadness around the edges. And it will be just enough to know there is something else to be felt, that you’re still capable of something besides pain and numbness. It will be enough.

United in Loss

22
Apr

Prince passed away yesterday. My husband texted me and asked if I had heard the news.

His joke landed flat.

I told him to quit joking because it wasn’t funny.

Especially because it wasn’t a joke.

I grew up in the height of Prince’s celebrity, and followed his evolution as an artist. I lived in Minneapolis and in Chanhassen during his rise to stardom, so I’ve absorbed exposure to him through the air, through the water. A couple friends and I used to try and discover his Paisley Palace in the backwoods of Chanhassen, thinking we could catch a glimpse of the mysterious rock star.

You can’t live here, especially having been through the 80’s, and not feel some kind of hometown pride about him. He changed his name to a unpronouncable symbol as an act of defiance, people. You don’t just do that without earning props. His talent was legendary and his dedication to Minneapolis was undeniable.

These are my people y’all.

People come out to honor Prince with singing.

Death comes to us all, doesn’t it.

Too soon, too soon.

Ash Wednesday, Funerals, and Mortality

10
Feb

My church doesn’t mark Ash Wednesday. There was recently a brief mention of the season of Lent, but that was about it. It’s not too surprising — it wasn’t something we made much of back when I was a child, either.

I grew up associating Lent with Catholicism, and at that point Catholicism was most often portrayed as something our Protestant heritage had cast off, something we had rejected as a lesser form of faith, something that was all about ritual, obligation and accumulating points.

How arrogant.

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Did you ever see that movie “Wedding Crashers” with Owen Wilson and the big guy from Chicago Vince Vaugn?

OK I didn’t ever see that movie either — I heard it was really bawdy and that type of humor makes me uncomfortable. The clean gist of it is that those guys show up at weddings when they don’t even know the bride or the groom.

I feel little bit like I’d fit into a strange sequel to that premise because I just went to a funeral where I didn’t know the person who passed away. I can’t tell if that makes me a funeral crasher? It’s got to sound at least borderline crashed status.

I don’t even know the son of the woman who died.

Am I sounding creepy yet?

I went to the funeral because I know the daughter-in-law. We work together. I enjoyed her very much but I don’t know her all that well yet, not in an emotional way. She didn’t need me there. The son didn’t need me there. I asked myself more than once whether it was a good idea that I attend.

What I do know — or what I’m starting to know despite my resistance — is that funerals aren’t only about the person who passed away.

With any flex of the imagination we are shoved into picturing the conditions we will one day find ourselves, in one way or another depending on how far we want to run with the thought. It doesn’t take much to realize that this isn’t your last event of this kind. And once you’ve been the one to sit in that front row, trying to make sense of what’s happening around you in that moment, the sting of death is one you feel for a long time afterward.

The fact that the funeral took place the night before Ash Wednesday was not lost on me.

Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return.

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In the bleak midwinter…

I held my own Ash Wednesday service today.

As I write that, I hear how wacky it sounds.

I read aloud (because I had the house to myself for a little while) from the Common Book of Prayer, knelt and prayed, and even played a couple songs on our piano, just because it seemed right.

Although I was alone, I knew I was also gathered with thousands of people across the world who were also acknowledging their mortality, their mistakes and shortcomings, and marking the beginning of the season of Lent and the coming of Easter. The solitude while joining a great tradition is what appealed to me, a great tradition going back through the ages. I want that history, that sense of heritage, even though I find myself wrestling with understanding the differing scholarly interpretations of what Jesus accomplished at Easter. And it’s probably time I expand my tradition base to include some practices that are unfamiliar to me.

One if those practices is the acknowledgement of our own mortality, something we often do a good job of ignoring. I think it’s important to put ourselves in the proper perspective sometimes, and Ash Wednesday is a good time for that.

Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return.

Grit and Grace: Vulnerable stuff in the Phoenix Soul Magazine ‘Reborn’ Issue

15
Jan

You may not have noticed in my previous post, but I was really excited about something — think puppy-chasing-its-tail-in-a-dizzying-circle excited. I had to wait to tell you until now, but now I can share.

Wanna know what I was so excited about?

Do ya,

do ya,

do ya?

Okay, I’ll try to maintain my composure and be professional about this, but I don’t know how long I’ll be able to maintain that façade so I’ll make this quick:

I got to contribute something to The Phoenix Soul Magazine. It’s an indie e-magazine with essays, poetry, artwork and a beautiful layout. The whole vibe is honest and real, seeking beauty in the midst of mess and looking for shining moments in the middle a storm. The curator, Amanda, has a beautiful spirit and is creating a really unique community of readers.

In this issue the theme is “Reborn” and my little bit is a piece of poetry (I read that with a Winnie-the-Pooh voice in my head), an art journal page to go with it, and one or two other short paragraphs. You can Click here to get your copy — and I think you’ll really enjoy it. You can buy single issues, like this one, or you can subscribe in larger chunks and get three or more copies as they are released.

Thank you for sharing in my excitement over this!

If you do get a copy, would you come back here and tell me what you think? Or you could share your thoughts over at the Facebook page?

It would be great if we could get more people to discover The Phoenix Soul so tell your pals to go get a subscription, and tell Amanda, the editor, that we love what she’s putting together (she’s on Facebook and Instagram)! And seriously, thanks again, everyone. Mwah!

Investing in Yourself

8
Jan

This week I invested in myself…twice.

Before I tell you about it, help me remember to tell you about the exciting thing happening next week. I’ll loop back to that at the end. Don’t let me forget, okay? Alright, nevermind. I know I’ll forget so I’ll just tell you now. You’ll want to check back in here in about a week ’cause I submitted a scary, vulnerable something for a thing and now that thing is going to be available and I want so much for you all to see this because the thing this thing is in is SO COOL and I think people will really get into it and possibly discover a whole new resource for finding beauty in the mundane and other people who acknowledge the pain and rawness of life, so be sure to come back next week and I’ll have links to share and it will be great!

Whew!

Okay, back to investing.

The first was that I took myself to an exercise class I know I enjoy. It’s snowing here in Minnesota, I overslept and there was an expoential degree of hurry-scurry as the kids and I tried to get out the door. It would have been really easy (REALLY) to drop them off and return home.

But I didn’t.

I put it in high gear, threw clean clothes and stuff for a shower into a bag (the world would thank me if they saw how sweaty I’d be if I didn’t shower after this class), got the kids where they needed to be, and arrived at my class (a Latin hip-hop-cardio-get-yer-groove-on-type of class, if you must know) just as they were starting. And even though it was inconvenient to prepare to get there and also be able to do the other things necessary to keep things running semi-smoothly at home, it was worth it.

I am worth it.

Minnesota in January

The other thing I did that was an investment in myself was to take a step of bravery and small financial investment.

My church is hosting an art festival and has invited people to submit their art work. This is the second year, and I didn’t make it to the first year to see what types of things are a part of this. I imagine my stuff will be very…grungy by comparison. Also there the factor that they’re saying if a piece is not three dimensional, it needs to be framed. Like in a frame. To hang on a wall. In public view.

This sounds like a stupid idea.

However stupid, once I heard about it, it was something I could not get out of my head, so I’ve been working on something for a few weeks now. The only thing that remained was to frame it and bring it to church.

Did y’all know that frames aren’t sized true? And that canvases can warp and only be somewhat true to the size they claim to be?

Yeah, me neither.

I wanted to do this on the cheap, and I discovered that I could find my own frame and then have a store prepare my canvas in said frame and make sure it’s all ready to go. Easy, right?

The only problem was that my version of cheap meant trying to find a frame at a thrift store, and with thrift stores you never know what you’re going to find and in my case, it was NOT finding a frame the correct size.

Okay, plan B. I’d have the store frame it. after all, I have a coupon for like 60% off, so how bad could it be?

When your budget was a frame from Salvation Army, it turns out that it could be pretty bad.

The frames were gorgeous, of course, but the price was not.

No problem, Let’s go to Plan C…or D…or whatever we’re on by this point. After making multiple phone calls, and visiting two different stores — one of which had my co-workers wishing me travelling mercies and asking me to send postcards — I got the open frame I needed but the shop I got it from couldn’t do the finishing in time for me to get it turned in on time.

I was feeling really stymied. It seemed like maybe I was pushing against forces that were aligned against me, as if I was being held from going any further with this action. There have been times in the past when this has happened and it ended up being a protection of sorts. It’s sometimes hard to tell if you’re just in a busy and having a hard time getting everything done or if you’re being redirected by some force greater than yourself.

As I realized what was going on, and became aware of how frenzied it was making me feel, I felt something shift inside my heart, and I knew I could let it go.

I didn’t have to participate in the art festival in order for my canvases to be a worthwhile endeavor.

No one else had to see them at all, or affirm them or me.

They were worth my time and energy, if only for my own enrichment and process. Painting and art journaling are worth my time and energy because they have been good for me, so good.

When I talked to my husband about it, about trying to save this money by using a thrift store frame and squeezing the canvas in it even though it didn’t really fit, he stopped me. He told me I should just buy the frames new. He told me I should have the store finish them for me. He supported this attempt to put something out into the world (he didn’t say that part in as many words) because he knew it was important to me.

I was worth it.

I was able to get it to the shop where they’d prepare it. That part did end up being economical. The investment of time, gas for my almost-on-empty tank, and energy was…let’s just say it was less than economical. But it didn’t matter if I was saving time or money any more. Because the expense was going towards a worthwhile cause — me.

What about you, friend? How are you allowing yourself to invest in yourself in this new year? What ways can you mindfully allow yourself the freedom to do what replenishes your soul?

Don’t forget to stop by the Facebook page next week, or check in here, to find out about the fun news I’ll have. There are links up on the right that should zip you over there, or you can subscribe and have posts delivered to your inbox — so efficient!

Morning Walk

9
Dec

The thick air sits translucent blue on the ground.

The mud doesn’t know if it should thaw or freeze.

The gossip of the wind through the wings of migrating geese above metallic-covered lake,

Hundreds of rice patty cone hats strewn all over the grass, their little tufts punctuating the hillside,

The highway blows in the background, cautionary beeps warn of backing machinery.

Three white tailed deer sprint back into the trees, leaping, seeming to hang midair, though there is no fence here and no need to fly.

I pick up palm sized stones – three in my pocket so far – to remind me of something but I don’t yet know what.

I veer away from the naked bones of sumac and drag my fingers along the switchgrass that lines the path. When I round the bend my sleeve is wet.

A single-engine prop plane crosses overhead.

I stop to watch, waiting. Though I’m in the open field, the plane does not tip it’s wing at me,

So I know it isn’t you.

I hope when I get back and strip off my boots a pebble falls out of the left one to remind me of you.

Parents of Kids with T1D

30
Nov

When you have Type 1 Diabetes, you don’t get to take a day off. You can’t ignore it (safely) and slacking on being prepared can have dangerous consequences.

Since I’m not the one in our family who has diabetes, I can’t tell you what it’s like for our daughter to live with it. But I can tell you more of what it’s like for us as her parents.

It’s persistent, ever-present, demanding, and confounding. You can do everything according to the specific ratios that were effective the days before, and get a totally different result. Talk about crazy-making!

Early on in our diagnosis, I was trying to be so careful, accounting for every tiny gram of carbohydrate while being unfamiliar with the process. I wanted our daughter to have access to any food she wanted, regardless of carbs. We’ve wanted to keep food neutral, not giving foods the power to be “good” or “bad” simply because they do or do not require insulin. Therefore, when she asked to have chocolate milk, I said yes and calculated the carbs into her shot.

Then I completely forgot to give her the chocolate milk.

Because I had accounted for chocolate milk, I had given her enough insulin to process the carbs in the chocolate milk. That meant that without the carbs to process, the insulin made her blood sugar drop.

I sent my daughter low.

I felt terrible.

I felt so responsible for endangering her, so inadequate to the task that was before me, so ill-equipped to manage something so potentially dangerous.

She was given some carbs, and her blood sugar rebounded quickly. It was not at all a crisis, but so early on, it felt like one. I had no idea how many times it would feel that way, reality or not.

That has dissipated some with gained knowledge and experience. It has not, however, become something that’s quite “second nature” to me yet. I don’t know if it ever will.

If you’re the stressed out parent or care giver of a young one with T1D, someone who could feel the tightness in your shoulders if only you could get a moment to think about how your shoulders felt, I get it.

You’re amazing.

Seriously. When you consider the task given to you, even with occasional slipups or miscalculations, you’re handling an amazing amount of information and subtleties that can be hard to articulate.

Humor me for a minute. Take this moment to inhale deeply through your nose, and slowly exhale out your mouth. I’m not kidding. Sit up straight, lower your shoulders, and take another long breath. Sometimes we have to take whatever moments we can get to breathe, slow down our busy brains, and hear this:

You’re doing it right.

You’re doing it well.

It’s going to be okay.

You can pick up T1D again in a few minutes, but right now, know that you’re not in this alone, even though it can feel like nobody understands what this is like. They probably don’t, but that doesn’t mean you’re on your own. There are lots of us out there, counting out free snacks, checking carb labels, refilling prescriptions, doing the things necessary to make this work. And we wouldn’t dream of calling those things a burden, because our children aren’t burdens, ever.

That doesn’t make it easy.

Hang in there. Drink some cool water. Sit in a sunny patch where the light comes through your window. Listen to the wind in the trees. Hang in there. You’re doing great. Go easy on yourself, and remember all the things you’re doing right.

We can all get through this together, until the day comes when there’s a cure and nobody has to do this anymore.

We can dream. And we can do it.