Glory shown through us

15
Sep

This should start by saying if you don’t believe in God, this conversation will be interesting only as a mental exercise. Because if there is no god then of course God doesn’t show his/her glory since there’s no one to do the showing.

If you do think there’s a God, however, you might have heard the idea of doing something for God’s glory or wanting to see God’s glory. Especially in Christian circles there is often an emphasis on making ourselves smaller in order to glorify God.

That sentiment – that I would need to diminish so that God could be made larger – has negative consequences when improperly applied. In many cases, women are taught that they should not think too much of themselves and certainly not talk about their skills or gifts. That would be immodest and you’d be accused of trying to claim for yourself what ought to be directed towards God.

Have a nice singing voice and someone compliments you? Give God the glory.

Make a sweet shot in basketball? Point to the sky and aim the glory toward God.

Get a strong score on a test? Praise God for the ability to study and that He helped you pass.

See what it does?

If it doesn’t undercut any confidence you might have in your own abilities, it certainly stymies any language you might have for articulating this or advocating for your own merit. If you aren’t supposed to acknowledge your own skills how are you supposed to pursue that higher position at work or talk about your contributions to the company when negotiating a raise? Or even take on more leadership in that organization where you volunteer?

As a woman, maybe you’re being shown that you aren’t supposed to do these things. That’s definitely true in some denominations more than others.

It’s worth noting that if God’s the creator, it makes sense for Him/Her to revel in you as part of creation. It makes sense for Him to take joy in those times when you find your sweet spot and engage in doing something you’re uniquely equipped to do. Why would God be jealous of that? I don’t think She would.

But that’s not the point — the point, this thinking goes, is the reverse…that we forget about God when we pay too much attention to ourselves and our accomplishments. And bet we can agree that we all can think of somebody who thinks too highly of themselves and puts themselves at the center of every conversation or event.

There’s wisdom in focusing the glory on God, as well as seeking out ways to see His glory, whatever that looks like in a modern, practical way. Right about the time I start getting myself into a mental twist about this, it occurs to me that we see His glory more often than we realize, maybe because we haven’t thought to associate glory with a beautiful sunset or when you see a loved one step into themselves and the air thrums with purpose and fulfillment.

God’s glory can be observed when we are most fully alive.

That thought loosens up my heart, and helps me remember that these are breath prayers. And so, I remember to breath.

These are a series of breath prayers. You can see all of them by looking at my page on FB or on IG. These are all either written or inspired by Osheta Moore.

Words, Bodies, and Fairy Magic

15
Oct

There’s a certain gratification in finding the right words to describe a situation or emotion. I’m working on finding those accurate words. Sometimes that means using the words of others (and attributing it to them, of course).

This week I’ve found some quotes I wanted to incorporate into my pages. Some of them are hard to read so I’ll try to write them beneath the page.

I don’t always want all my writing to show, so I often use flaps to conceal some of my journaling. This is the backside of a peekaboo page, so I pulled down one flap so eyes wouldn’t be exhausted after the first photo. I should have included a photo with both flaps closed, because the illustration on the backside of the pink is an active drawing of people on horses and it speaks to the struggles of the last couple years and contrasts with the word I was drawn to: resign.

Here’s the same page with the top flap open.

The next page uses a photo of one of my adorable nieces in fairy wings.

[“Funny how women are ashamed of their inner fairy whereas men are forever proudly displaying their inner cowboy or fireman.” ~Dawn French]

This is, obviously, a gross oversimplification but there are definitely bits of truth in it, primarily in regards to women not owning their inner magic, the way women tamp themselves down or “play nice” rather than speak their minds without apology.

…Which leads us to our next journal page, one that tries to examine the relationship between the feminine and God. It’s got a flap, but that’s mostly just to streamline the visual clutter.

Here’s the same page with the biggest circle flapped up.

[“Yet here we sit, with our souls tucked away in this marvelous luggage, mostly insensible to the ways in which every spiritual practice begins with the body.” ~Barbara Brown Taylor]

My own short journaling says My body is a temple — and that means ALL of my body, even the parts that make me female. I am a holy temple.

How’s that for some late-in-the-week pondering for a light mood on a Thursday? ?

That’s all for this week. There’s more but it’s not ready or not on theme right now. If you search Get Messy Art Journal you can see what other people are doing in response to some of the same prompts and challenges. They’re also on Instagram under the hashtag #getmessythursdays.

I’m taking a mini-course from Juliette Crane, which I’m loving but again, it’s not part of the Get Messy Art Journal community so I’m going to hold it for later. She’s amazing and I’m turning into a little bit of a super-fan. Here’s a preview of something inspired by one of the class lessons.

As always, thanks for being wonderful and playing along with me. We have MEA Break this week, so if you need me I’ll be outside with the kids, soaking up as much sun and fresh air as possible. Until next time!

Playdough and other gray Areas

21
Apr

http://mrg.bz/DLazQs

We are such a comparmentalizing, either/or people, arent’t we?

We want each washcloth to be folded and neatly stacked. If we could give each one its own zip locked, mesh, linen bag, that would be extra comforting. That way, it won’t come unfolded, get wrinkled, or tumble out of the linen closet when we open the door. It will stay contained.

Decided.

Resolved.

Tidy.

But what if the stack tumbles over, the bags come unzipped?

To use another analogy, what if the play dough colors get put away in *eek!* the wrong containers?

Clay will become swirly, a merry mix of blue, green and red, yellow and purple to make **double eek!** a warm shade of gray. (All you play-dough separators out there — and I KNOW you’re out there — this is NOT directed at you personally. Go with the analogy okay?)

We don’t like gray much, do we? We want the colors (and people and ideas) to stay obediently in their places.

Moms stay in the home.

Dad’s are the bread earners.

Women are the ones who communicate emotions.

Men want respect above all else.

Men are the analytical thinkers. Women’s views are skewed by hormones and feelings.

We can do only one role well, or other roles will suffer.

Or we apply this to issues of faith, wanting there to be an “in” club and an “out” club. Because it’s not fair if I do all this work to be in the “in” club only to find out it’s ALL the “in” club, is it? And those gender role stereotypes come heavily into play in the church, even when we think we’re being forward minded.

What if we were able to see the beauty and relief of gray?

What if we focused on the coolness a shadow provides after the burning rays of the sun?

What if we admired the texture of an elephant’s skin instead of criticizing it for being less vibrantly colored than an exotic bird?

What if we valued the creative process of expression that produced that marbled mix of all colors when a child finished with that clay, instead of painstakingly separating out the colors and returning them to their yellow containers with corresponding lids?

It seems that some people feel that to not know the answer to a difficult question is indicative of not knowing the answers to any questions, and this inhibits them from seeing an opportunity to learn more or reexamine long-held suppositions. It makes people more uncomfortable to sit with the question than it does to spit out an answer they haven’t thought about in years.

What if we were okay with the question, even if that left us in the gray?

Lots and lots of questions here today, but I’m going to be bold and ask one more: what is your take on this? There, I did it. That was just one more. I’m a woman of my word. 🙂

Striped Tights and Silver Bracelets

12
Jul

There was a girl in my high school who frequently wore black and white striped tights. You know the ones? They looked like the ones worn by the green witch in The Wizard of Oz. Most times she paired those tights with a black dress or skirt — black was the thing.

This girl was smart and friendly, and she did not want to fit in with the rest of the mainstream kids who were all about the perfectly smooth ponytail (how did they do it without any bumps?), socks that perfectly matched their shirts or the right balance of huge jeans to fitted tank top. She didn’t seem to care about any of that, and was in fact trying to be the opposite of the regularly scheduled programming.

http://mrg.bz/pA6Kca

It took me a while to notice that there were other people who wore the striped tights, or variants of them. The girl who had seems so independent and alternative at first, was still part of a crowd. She was just part of a different crowd than I was.

We both still wanted to belong.

We ALL want to belong.

I’m here to tell you that regardless of your smooth ponytail, your fancy silver bracelet with the dangling heart charm, your fit body, your acrylic nails, you and I both desire to be known. We both desire trustworthy friends. We both get tired and lash out at the people closest to us. You might do it with a more pulled-together outer façade, but when the makeup comes off and the shades are drawn, you look a whole lot like me.

That’s not meant to be an insult.

I want you to know that when you get done making everyone think you’ve got it all figured out, even if you get tired of working at that goal and want a temporary break, you can come talk to me. We’ll laugh about how we ever thought we had fooled anyone, and we’ll try to figure out why we thought we had to fool anyone in the first place. You can remind me to pull a comb through my hair and I can help you get dirt under those expensive nails. We can belong together because we ALL belong together. Most of us just haven’t discovered that quite yet.

Today I’m linking up with Lisa-jo Baker and doing Five Minute Friday…on a Saturday. It’s open to anyone, and if you want to read some other posts, go check it out: Click here to read more

What about YOU? Where do you feel most like you belong? Do you cultivate an environment of belonging when you’re with others? What times have you felt like you haven’t belonged?

Not Yer Typical Grateful Mother’s Day Post

11
May

Breaking all the rules today: it’s Sunday, this will take more than five minutes, and I’m rolling two posts into one. Oh yeah – I’m also using improper grammar/vocabulary because I’m pretty sure “yer” isn’t an accepted dictionary word. Let it slide today my friends, will you?

I know I’m feeling contrary but I want to ask why mothers must feel bad for the fact there’s a day that celebrates them, why they must feel bad for the fact they were able to become mothers in one way or another, why in recent years we’ve started to feel we must celebrate in hushed tones rather than accept one specific day of appreciation?

It’s so typical Martyr Mom, isn’t it? “Oh no, no, sweetheart, I wouldn’t want to do anything for Mother’s Day. I might make someone feel bad if they weren’t a mother.” It’s a tricky spot to be in.

It’s a little bit like the way my sons feel when I compliment one of them. I tell Rex, “I really like the comic book you’re making.” Bobo hears that and comments, “You don’t like the thing I’m making.” Over and over, I assure them that if I compliment one of them, it has nothing to do with the other. Just because I say one of them is good at something, it doesn’t follow that the other is BAD at it, less than, or anything relating to them at all. It is just me calling out something about one individual. It isn’t a finite substance — as if there’s only so much talent available.

It may stem from some twisted old-timey notion that full womanhood is realized in motherhood, or that somehow women are redeemed through childbirth. We don’t have time to dig into the origins of that now, nor can we dwell on how that informs our current attitudes, but if a person is seen as forever less-than if they’re not a mother, then it’s no wonder there are some significant hang-ups surrounding it.

If you ask me, people would be smart to create their own personal Mother’s Days. Think of the brunch pandemonium we could avoid. Imagine the pick-me-up moms could get in northern regions where winter can drag on for way too long. Pop your own personal Mother’s Day in the middle of that, and break up the monotony. And does anyone save any money by purchasing flower baskets or earrings marketed around Mother’s Day? Not likely. Plus, I’ve got to say, I don’t really desire to hear “Happy Mother’s Day” from a pulpit or a person who is not somehow related to my mothering or somehow being my mother. There’s something about seeing Mother’s Day doggie leashes (Now Mom can walk the dog in style!) or Mother’s Day paperclips (Help keep Mom organized!) that detracts from the sincerity of the occasion anyways. However, Mother’s Day is firmly established now, and if the baseline is a Mother’s Day card that costs $5, you know that corporate America isn’t going be quick to give up Mother’s Day. It’s too big of a money maker.

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Instagram: tclmn

As I write this, I’m sitting at a restaurant, waiting for my mom. She’s supposed to meet me, but she’s lost. She gets lost a lot. She is more of an instinctual, landmark-reliant driver rather than a direction-following driver. Even if you write out directions for her, she doesn’t generally get there the way you map it out for her.

That sums up her approach to a lot of life. She doesn’t set out to challenge the status quo; it’s her inherent BS sniffer and her inquisitive mind that prompt her to ask the question on everyone’s minds, to say what no one else is willing to, or to proclaim that the Emperor isn’t wearing any clothes. Before they retired, she was a pastor’s wife (although, do you ever really stop being a pastor or a pastor’s wife, even after you retire? It’s kind of hardwired by that point.). She never did fit that stereotype, and that was a constant source of both pride and struggle for her. When people don’t know how to categorize you, it’s easier to just dismiss you as an anomaly rather than find a new spot for you in their minds.

Mom is opinionated, curious, adventurous, spontaneous, restless, loyal, and sensitive. She thinks non-linearly, which can make the linear people around her a little crazy. And let’s admit it, she is a little nuts. She’s random, resourceful, freakin’ hilarious, and sometimes doesn’t know when to quit. She’s one of those who underestimates the power of her words because she underestimates her significance. That underestimation can lead to misunderstandings, and coupled with a zinger or two, it can be a dangerous combination. On the one hand, she’s surprised that anything she’d have to say would actually mean something important to anyone, and on the other hand she’s hurt when it isn’t heard. She’s contradictory that way. Oh crap. Didn’t I say at the beginning of this that I was feeling contrary? I AM becoming my mother!

I’m grateful for her. She’s an unceasing cheerleader, and sees the potential for good things for all her kids. She believes in you, even when you don’t have the courage to believe in yourself.

I’m grateful there’s a special day created that helps people take time to acknowledge the mothers in their lives. On top of that, I’m grateful for the many people who have been mother-types to me throughout my life, for the women who modeled serving behind the scenes, and those who modeled leading from up front. I’m grateful for the people who helped me when things were hard, the people who teamed with me to try something new, who fed my hair-brained schemes and picked me up after epic failures. These may not have all been women, but in many senses these people played a mother role in my life.

From the objections I raised about feeling bad about being a mother on Mother’s Day, I know you’re questioning my sensitivity to those for whom this is a difficult day. It’s not that we shouldn’t have Mother’s Day, nor should we exalt motherhood. A woman is more than her ovaries, and a woman need not have a child to be fully actualized. Not every woman wants to be a mother. I know there are women out there who long to be mothers and cannot, those who have become mothers and could not raise that child, adoptions that have fallen through, heartache that seems bottomless. These things don’t stop being a part of us when this day passes. I hope we can all be kind to the varied circumstances of others, and not assume that our story is the story of every person we meet, easy story or difficult story.

We can all be mothers to one another. We can be tender, we can be tough, we can be supportive, we can be stern. Even if we didn’t have those loving mothers in our lives, we can find them. They are out there. You may already have one in your life and just never viewed him/her as such. You might have an opportunity to mother someone (you don’t have to call it that) and help them find their footing, their voice, or their stride. That is an important role. Do not diminish it just because it doesn’t involve an infant.

Let’s all become the best people we can be, and inspire one another to take those leaps of faith that are done so much more easily with the support of others.

You can do it. I can do it.

We are better together.

Happy Mother’s Day.

A reminder when we’re surrounded by dry bones

8
Apr

A valley of dry bones.

Decay

Death

Loss

A life broken down

Hot wind swirls the dust into the air, diffusing the sun, invading lungs. Any move to reposition, to turn your back to the wind shifts your uneven station. Try for stable footing and kick up more sand, amplifying desperate rasping cough. Pull your shirt over your mouth, try to filter out debris, find the good air. All around you are bones and little else, lifeless, evidence of the Final Destination.

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The building didn’t excite me. I figured if I was going to visit another church, I should at least make it worth my time and do something different, but if the building was any indicator, I was walking into something that had a different name but was just the same ol’, same ol’.

People wore name tags.

The former pastor latched onto me and told me (three times — he’s getting on in years) the same four tidbits about his wife and about the woman playing the piano. He also hugged me, which made me wonder if he thought I was someone he knew instead of a complete stranger.

They had kneelers. We didn’t use them in this service, which both disappointed and relieved me.

The pastor wore a collar.

The guy who sat in front of me must have had some chips stashed in his pocket, Napoleon Dynamite style. The smell of cool ranch kept wafting back to me.

They passed the peace. They did numerous call and response-type readings. They did a Kyrie Eleison (and not down the road where I must travel). The congregation fully participated in the service, if only to pay attention and stand or sit as dictated by the bulletins in our hands.

Sun lit the huge stained glass window, which hadn’t been visible from where I had parked and entered the building. That window was a form of worship in itself, the way it painted bright color blotches on the wall and filled the whole room, all the way up to the soaring roof, with gentle light.

I didn’t expect to have any need met that morning. I just wanted a change of pace from the mega-church I attend, wanted a sense of rhythm and tradition. I wanted to be reminded that the Church is wide and the little mousehole I inhabit is not indicative of the mansion of faith expression.

I didn’t expect God to show up — I didn’t want to put that kind of pressure on Him.

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Maybe it’s a normal passage used during the Lenten season.

Maybe it is dictated by church calendar or a book of the order of service that this denomination uses for all services.

Maybe it was a fluke.

That morning, I came to church having just worked through an art journal that focused on a passage in Ezekiel 37, the valley of the dry bones.

[Let me just say, as a general rule, I don’t spend a lot of time in Ezekiel — or any of the minor prophets for that matter.]

Here, let me show you what came out of that attempt:

So when the pastor (a woman, also something different (and refreshing) that you don’t see all the time) began her sermon and focused on Ezekiel 37, the valley of the dry bones, my heart gave a start.

Why, out of all the entirety of the Bible, was she working from this text on the one and only time I’d ever stepped into her church?

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It is so easy to concern ourselves with the micro, the zoom-in, the close-up. We get so focused on the inner workings of one system that we forget about the whole organism.

In terms of church, it is really easy for me to focus on evangelicalism. It’s what I know. It informs my worldview in ways I’m not even aware of. It’s the subculture I’ve lived in my whole life. I can’t stress enough the ways this influences me without me meaning it to — it’s the same way you can’t hear your own accent when you’re around other people who have the same accent. Only when you are around someone with a different accent do you become aware that there are different ways of speaking…and you still think you don’t have an accent!

There have been so many hard things happening in the evangelical world and so many ways in which I feel like the entrance door keeps shrinking and shrinking, even for those who have been allowed in previously. There seems to be less and less room for conversation, less consideration of the conflicting sides of issues (without simply waiting until it is your turn to make your argument) and the merits of a differing conclusion, and suspicion about the true state of someone’s faith should they want to have these discussions. It is disheartening, demoralizing, and to be honest, it makes me want to crawl into bed for a month of Sundays.

This is why it is so essential to zoom out.

Instagram: tclmn

As much as the evangelical church has a corner on the “right way” to believe, there are other, long-standing (longer-standing, in fact) expressions of faith. These are usually viewed with condescension in evangelical corners, or a raised eyebrow about the validity of the parishioner’s real relationship with God, but these non-evangelical congregations tap into something evangelicalism doesn’t — a sense of history, tradition, and world-wide connectedness. There is a whole history of church movements that I am largely ignorant of, and each movement has an arc — a rise and a diminishing — within the larger story of faith.

I don’t delude myself into thinking that all the answers are simply in a different denomination, something mainline or even non-Protestant (is there anything that is non-Protestant that isn’t Catholic???). I know enough about church life to know that the church, whatever church that is, is made up of humanly human people. There is no perfect church.

However, as a visitor, upon hearing the pastor preach on a fairly obscure verse that I had been focused on in the days leading up to that visit, I have to tell you that I was reminded of the size of God, of His movement and activity in places I will never know about, in people I’ll never encounter, in expressions I might not recognize at all.

God’s crazy like that.

And me, with all my angst and grappling and raging, I am just one dry bone that God breathed into and brought back to life. There is a whole valley around me, other bones God is working with, breathing into, bestowing His Spirit on. He is big enough to handle it.

Thank God for that.

What is your faith tradition? Does it satisfy your desires for expression of your faith? What are ways you incorporate your faith into daily life?

A favorite story and a guest post

28
Mar

I was just going to say that I couldn’t undress because I hadn’t any clothes on when I suddenly thought that dragons are snaky sort of things and snakes can cast their skins. Oh, of course, thought I, that’s what the lion means. So I started scratching myself and my scales began coming off all over the place. And then I scratched a little deeper and, instead of just scales coming off here and there, my whole skin started peeling off beautifully, like it does after an illness, or as if I was a banana. In a minute or two I just stepped out of it. I could see it lying there beside me, looking rather nasty. It was a most lovely feeling. So I started to go down into the well for my bathe.

Thus begins the passage from C.S. Lewis’ Voyage of the Dawn Treader that has stayed with me and resurfaced many times over again since I read it as a child.

Today I am guest posting on the Story Sessions website. Story Sessions is a group organized by Elora Nicole that challenges people to write the hard things, be brave, and push our writing to be its best. It is open to anyone who wants to subscribe and become a better writer. I had no idea what a great thing I had stumbled upon when I signed up. I am so honored to be included on their site today, and I’d love to have you come read the rest of my post.

Here’s the link: http://bit.ly/1myIEqT and thank you for coming by today!

Just one word

27
Mar

Can you name one teacher who saw something in you?

Or can you remember a coach who pushed you to improve, knowing your potential?

Do you have champions in your life? People who claim something – call it out – about you before you’re able to see it in yourself?

Calling to you quietly,

Singing over you with words you dare not repeat,

Dreams you dare not claim as your own,

Bolster, buoy you with unearned confidence, trust, and opportunity.

Secret poems written in scrawled pencil, smudged by the hurry to get it down and tuck it away in its safe place.

Songs hummed over and over inside your head, only aloud when the woods or parking lot afforded you safety and solitude.

Have you heard the whisper?

Let it draw near and echo in your ears.

You are mighty.

You are beautiful.

You are powerful.

You are fierce.

You are loyal.

You are true.

You are not alone.

You are not finished,

And no matter where you are right now, God is not finished with you yet.

If you can hear just one word (which is really more than a single word, but it is a single thought) today and let it ring mightily in your ears: you are loved. Now. Here. No modifications or improvements required. You are loved.

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Question: Is there someone who makes you brave, calls out the best in you, someone who makes you be the best version of yourself? How do they accomplish this feat, and how can you do it for someone else?

This is a link-up with Lisa-jo Baker, who just happens to be having her book come out next week. If you want to linkup, read other posts, or find out more about her book, here’s the website to click: http://lisajobaker.com

She is Returning to Me Now

8
Mar

In second grade (or thereabouts — it’s been so many years now) I had a wonderful babysitter. Her name was Kris, which was so cool because it was a name for a boy or a girl, a new concept for me.

She taught me how you don’t pronounce the ‘R’s at the end of words in pop songs, and used Bette Midler’s song, ‘The Rose’, as a case study.

She sketched beautiful faces that had eyes drawn in exquisite detail — at least they were to my second grade mind.

When we moved to a new neighborhood too far away to continue seeing her, I wrote letters to Kris. They were long, descriptive letters, probably aimless and for all I know, unintelligible in my eight year old chicken-scratch, smudgy-pencil handwriting. I was enamored with describing the texture of a quilt, the glint of water on a mermaid’s tail when she flicked it and in one movement dove back under the water.

Kris kindly wrote back to me, brief letters but letters I saved, folded in a special box, her drawings hidden behind the cardboard backing of a framed photograph.

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Fast forward to high school.

A cranky teacher. He looked more like he belonged on a stereotypical cop show set in Philly, with his bushy black mustache and heavy dark hair. He should have been in uniform, eating donuts and writing tickets for jaywalking.

He was the one stuck with teaching an unwilling class how to diagram sentences, the seventh circle of hell for any teacher, I’m sure.

He told me I was a good writer, that I should write for the school newspaper. I couldn’t hear him. I thought he was just having a hard time finding students to do the job, so I wrote one or two articles, and let it fade away. I dismissed his affirmation even though the idea that I was a good writer made my heart sing.

http://mrg.bz/009hwv

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The world of books and words was one I cherished all through college, our department a place where earnest attempts at poetry were allowed, where experimental-run-on-sentences-were-viewed-as-Virginia-Woolfe-esque and therefore acceptable. I majored in English but didn’t work to know what careers this might offer me, be it a life in academia or a position in publishing. I loved words but thought they need all be directed at lining the path toward God.

I didn’t see they were already infused with His presence, and had no need of my spectacular tour-guide skills.

Even though I was an English major, got to read, analyze and write about literature, my occupational focus shifted to the skills I was learning outside of classes. I held in my mind my love of story and also my assumption that I was called to something other than books. One semester of “Foundations of Education” and a field experience, and I arrogantly declared that I wanted to teach students about things that really mattered, that I didn’t like thought of teaching students in a classroom about literature and not being free to address the way all truth points to God.

What an ass.

As if books and stories hadn’t been the things that fed me along the way, and continued to be my special respite, the way my spirit was replenished. As if I needed to point this out for others when I hadn’t needed anyone to point it out for me.

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And now, things come full circle.

Now, to write about the texture of that quilt, the places where it is threadbare and the batting has started to escpae, the life it has had and the stories it has heard, this fills me with great joy.

Now, the flash of sun on the rippling scales, glowing green, blue and golden,

the line of light as that mermaid tail slips silently back into the quiet depths, this fills my mind with songs of fullness and a strong, brave heart.

The echoes of who I was remain as I reach into the shadow to draw them back to me. I pull them in, pet each one, and set it on the windowsill so the light and air can fluff them, help them grow strong again. Even though I did not feed or water them, did not acknowledge their importance, did not trust their purpose, I see now that they had a patience I could not imagine, a longsuffering I could not emulate. They waited, peeked out now and again — never intrusive — just to see if I was still there, until I discovered they’d been there all along.

The girl I once was, the one who saw pictures with words, who knew the power of a word-image, the importance of saying it out loud into the air even when the outcome was unknown, the one who noticed the slant of light and the far-off sound of a train, who had questions which no simple answers could satisfy, she is returning to me now.

I will not put her back in the shadows again.

*****

This post is part of the Story Session link up “The Girls We Once Were” and is part of International Women’s Day. Join us or find out more: http://bit.ly/1hX2mZ1

Missing Ash Wednesday

5
Mar

One year when I worked as the junior and senior high youth coordinator at a church, I got to participate in the Ash Wednesday service.

My background was in the same denomination but we hadn’t really marked Ash Wednesday in any particular way that I recall. We always had Wednesday night church, so an Ash Wednesday might mention of the start of the Lenten season (the lead up to Easter), and even go so far as to encourage us to give up something for Lent. There was no somber service that I remember, no special candles and certainly no marks made on people’s foreheads. That was something Catholics did, and we weren’t totally sure about them anyway (I’ve come way off my high-horse about that, by the way.).

The Wednesday when I helped with the congregation’s service, I was asked to administer the ashes. It wasn’t only me up there, but I was the youngest, and I was female. I would stand alongside two other people, both older. The man next to me was a longstanding fixture of the church.

I felt the significance build as I approached the event.

The service went along smoothly and the time came for me to go up front and play my part.

It was a divine and holy moment.

People I cared about, people I served, students I led, these all came to the altar. As they stood in front of me, I made a smudgy cross on their foreheads and repeated a phrase, the specifics escape me now but it was to the point of “Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.”

The ashes were a sign of penitence, contrition, and acknowledgment of sin. It almost felt as if I was bestowing a blessing upon these friends. I remember being teary and wishing I could kiss everyone right on their mark of the cross.

And at the end of the service we all wore the ashes.

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This year I wanted to attend an Ash Wednesday service.

Something in my spirit desired the ritual, the darkened space, the high ceiling and quiet corners. But despite my research and efforts, I couldn’t make it happen.

I know that the outward sign of ashes are not necessary, that it is a condition of the heart. My heart. But there is something about wearing the ashes as a mark that lines up the image I project with the inner state of things.

My inner state is such that I get mad and raise my voice with my kids.

I bend the truth rather than have the hard conversation.

I ask leading questions or make (what I intend to be) subtle suggestions to try and get my way.

I’m self-centered.

I lack generosity.

But I wouldn’t let you know it by looking at me.

Wearing the ashes reminds me that no matter how much progress I’ve made in taming my inner turmoil, I still screw up. And there is a freedom in those times when our outside and our inside line up, when the façade and neatly colored lines get wonky and the gaps can be seen.

There are still theological ideas that get my brain in a twist and I want to dig deeper into the various school of thought on alternative to substitutionary atonement, but I know this:

Jesus, out of His great love, came for me. He came for you. And whatever you decide to do with that – accept, reject, ignore – is up to you.

I’m missing Ash Wednesday this year, like I have many other years. Even though I’m not in a church today, my heart is in the right place.

Do you have a tradition of participating in Ash Wednesday or Lent? How does that look for you, and are there elements that make it especially significant?