we say hallelujah

Sometimes I don’t know how to be quiet. Maybe that’s surprising, I don’t talk much. But I am noisy, noisy, noisy. I crave solitude, i crave silence, not because I know how to be still (because really, I don’t), but because my mind won’t stop moving, won’t stop thinking and questioning and doubting, and I want to move with it, make more noise.

Have you read Intimations of Immortality? It is a beautiful poem, by William Wordsworth (the name of this blog is, in part, inspired by that poem). I find myself in many of its lines.  But here, here especially:

But for those obstinate questionings

Of sense and outward things,

Fallings from us, vanishings;

Blank misgivings of a creature

Moving about in worlds not realized

All of my questions, piled high and towering. My misgivings, carried to him, this gracious God who listens, who hears me. Sometimes he only asks that I be still, that I slow down, let him seep into me, pore by pore, this holy and wild and restorative wind.

Because it is Holy Week. And I nearly forgot.

Because tomorrow he goes to the cross, and holds the entirety of this shattered world in his wounds, and maybe all of my questions can wait. It is time to kneel.

Because this is the story that redeems mankind, this splintered wood upon a splintered back climbing that dusty, cruel hill. I can see him, and I want to reach out and wipe the sweat off his brow, brush the hair from his eyes, tell him that I’m sorry, I’m so sorry that you are carrying my sin, that I have caused this.

Because this postlapsarian world is cracked right down the middle; it keeps me up late into the night and my eyes are red with weeping. But this cross, this crown of thorns, this Son of Man gasping beneath the weight of my sorrow, my darkness and my rebellion--he is the repairer of the breach. He binds up the wounds of this broken, bleeding earth.

Because pain is not without purpose. Because he knew heartbreak and loss, searing pain and stunning brutality, and it all worked for our redemption. We are redeemed.

Because of him, my pain is not without purpose. Because we have all been wounded, because our hearts have been broken, but the cross is before us, it is all paid for, and we possess a lasting hope.

Because of that great and terrible silence, his last breath, creation hushed.

Can you just be still with me? he asks. Can you mourn with me? Mourn for me?

And they wrap his battered body, their hands in his wounds, his blood on their hands, their lips, their tears mingling with the scent of death, of wounded flesh and a savior lost.

Rabbi, where have you gone? You have left us, and we long for your voice to fill the silence.

And this is the tension. This is when we are pulled taut, and we wonder where he has gone. We are straddling two kingdoms, one crumbling, the other rising. It is the fault line, great tectonic plates shifting beneath our feet. May we not fear the breaking, the shfiting, the rising, the falling--he comes, he comes.

And Good Friday is good because it is a promise, a seal, and the victory will be final, complete.  Destroy this temple and in three days I will raise it up.

We kneel before this cross, brutal and bloody and oh Jesus, it hurts to look. Here is pain. Here is darkness. Here is the evil of man on display; we murdered our own God, our own Savior.

But in three days I will raise it up. Even still, I will redeem. Even still, I will love.

And Good Friday is good because we say hallelujah, it is finished, we are loved, he has loved us--right up to the very end.

What I'm Into

This is one of my favorite features over on a couple of blogs, so I thought I'd give it a try. I'm a little late for a strictly February post, so it's "What I'm Into" mid-March edition.

What I Read

Some interesting reading this past month. I feel like I need to schedule a few hours to process all of it, go through my highlights and notes, let it sink in. We'll see if that ever happens. I do wish I had more time. My "to read" list is getting pretty long.

Torn: Rescuing the Gospel from the Gays vs. Christian Debate by Justin Lee- I really cannot recommend this book highly enough. I'll echo what Sarah Bessey said and agree that it is a gift to the church. It is thought-provoking, challenging, insightful. And Justin tells his story with such candor and vulnerability. It's worth reading. I promise.

Daring Greatly: How the Courage to Be Vulnerable Transforms the Way We Live, Love, Parent, and Lead by Brene Brown- I first heard of Brene Brown through this TED talk. I listened to it over and over again at the time. I loved this book. Loved it. I think about many of the principles daily.

Introverts in the Church: Finding Our Place in an Extroverted Culture by Adam McHugh- I read a review of this book a couple years ago and have been wanting to read it ever since, but finally picked it up this month. It was a refreshing read. I go to a wonderful church, led by a pastor who happens to be an introvert himself, but even with that, it's easy to feel out of place, out of the loop because I'm not quite outgoing enough. I found some camaraderie here, and lots of advice for cultivating community without sacrificing my own temperament.

Quiet: The Power of Introverts in a World That Can't Stop Talking by Susan Cain- I guess I was on an introvert kick this month. This one covers different ground than McHugh's book. Extensively researched, Cain discusses everything from Wall Street to infant temperament, Asian culture vs. American culture, leadership, schooling, parenting, and more. I've read mixed reviews, but I thoroughly enjoyed this book. I feel liberated in a million different ways.

The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald- This was a reread. Wonderful as always. And that final paragraph. Seriously, it's perfect. I reread the book because the movie releases soon (!!!), and I'm weird and like my books as fresh as possible when I watch the movie renditions. It's why I haven't seen Anna Karenina yet. I'm trying to squeeze in a reread of the novel sometime, but it hasn't happened yet.

Persuasion by Jane Austen. I can't believe I've never read this little Austen novel. A serious delight, from beginning to end and now one of my favorites. Of all of Austen's heroines, I understand Anne Elliot the best. I think we are kindred spirits.

On my Kindle (or nightstand) Right Now:

A Year of Biblical Womanhood: How a Liberated Woman Found Herself Sitting on Her Roof, Covering Her Head, and Calling Her Husband "Master" by Rachel Held Evans

Wuthering Heights by Emily Bronte
 
Half the Sky: Turning Oppression into Opportunity for Women Worldwide by Nicholas D. Kristof & Sheryl WuDunn

Bread and Wine: Readings for Lent and Easter by Various Authors

In My Ears

My sister (who has great taste in music. Anything good I listen to, it's probably from her) introduced me to the Quiet Hounds and I listen to this song way too much, especially in the car with the windows down and the volume too loud.

This song by Matt Gilman from IHOP is one of my favorites right now. I can't help but weep every time I hear it.

Other favorites on my Spotify playlists are Noah and the Whale (especially this song), Sea Wolf, and All Sons and Daughters. And the new Endless Years album by United Pursuit Band is incredible.

Have you heard this song by Lady Danville? It's a good one (and not only because they are UCLA alum). These lyrics:
  "everything I've done, just to be away from the shore
   just to turn back now, I'm turning back now."
That just about sums up my life.

On my Television

Well, the third season of Downton Abbey ended and I haven't really watched anything since. Slowly catching up on Grey's Anatomy when I get some free time. And I'm really excited to start Call the Midwife one of these days.

As far as movies--yeah, none. The only Oscar film I saw was Les Miserables. Sad, I know. But time is scarce, and movies are usually the first to go.

What I'm Looking Forward To

Spending a week in New York City with my sister. Lots of museums and walking, delicious food, and cool, crisp air. I'd love to see a show or two, but not going to happen with a toddler. Maybe next time. This will be Diana's second time in New York. She was 6 months the first time, and it was a surprisingly easy trip. I do remember that New York City bathrooms are not very diaper changing friendly. My sister and I changed her on the lid of a few toilets in dimly lit restrooms. (who decided dark restrooms are ever a good idea?? I'm not exactly going for sexy ambiance while I pee.) It didn't go well and we ended up with poop on our hands. Hoping to avoid that this time around.

Speaking of diapers, I'm also looking forward to being diaper-free. We're almost there!

New (to me) Blogs I'm Digging

Rachel Held Evans- I've read her blog on and off over the past year or so, but am a more regular reader now. She is not afraid to tackle the difficult topics, to live in the tension. I am a woman of many questions, and so is she, and while I don't always agree, this is quickly becoming one of my favorite places on the internet. And this post is just incredible.

The Beautiful Due- I discovered this blog recently. Just head over and read some of John's poetry. It will breathe life into you.

Ladys and Gents- Because I like cute kids. No other reason. Makes any bad day a little bit better.

Favorite Post

Dear Mom on the iPhone, I Get It- This rocked.


What are YOU into, my friends?

on hope

Let’s all raise our glasses to hope, why don’t we? This most unlikely usurper of my heart, stealing the show, slipping in unnoticed, without fanfare, balloon towers, or pinatas swinging from long-limbed trees. It has been quieter than that, like falling asleep in the cool darkness of shade, and waking up with the sun slanting through the leaves, your surroundings ablaze with light.

But wait a second. I don’t want to pretend this is something it isn’t. It is not the end of worry, although that would be nice. It is not the end of fear. I would be lying if I said I was never afraid. I push back against fear daily, minutely. It is not happiness bubbling over at all times, in every circumstance. Oh, I wish it was all smiles, all jumping and leaping and twirling beneath the smooth, blue underside of heaven. Maybe it is supposed to be, maybe it will be one day, but I haven’t arrived at that definition of hope just yet.

Hope is an anchor. It grounds me. I am preserved. But it doesn’t prevent the waves from slamming into this small frame.

What if I rephrase it this way? Hope is in pursuit of me. It is circles and circles of light, and even as I spin out of its orbit, it is behind me again, never tiring of righting me, reminding me, restoring me.

It’s a pesky little word, and some days I shrug it off, I scoff at it, because like I’ve written and thought so many times--hope is for the naive, for the foolish, for those who refuse to face reality with all of its sharp edges and cold, unyielding surfaces.

Hope is not for me. I am too rational for all of this. I’m proud to wear my cynicism like armor, a defense against disappointment. And yes yes, I know what the Word says, that hope does not disappoint, but you know what? I have been disappointed. So there.

It’s childish of me, isn’t it?

Yes, yes, exactly.

And now we’re standing silent and still on a large expanse of land, him and I.  There are no trees, no flowers, no rivers or even mountains in sight. But despite the emptiness, I know the ground beneath my feet is fertile. I bounce on my heels and the soil springs up to meet me. This is not barren desert earth; it is barren fertile earth, poised for the planting.

I turn towards him. “Where do we begin? There is so much. And water? There doesn’t seem to be any water. You know, we cannot live without water.”

His eyes are glittering, but he does not discount me. He looks deeply into me, he takes me seriously, and I love him for it. “It will come.”

We begin to walk, slowly, deliberately; I have no idea where we are headed. It is just acres and acres of empty land all around, no destination in sight. It goes on this way for a while. His hands are clasped behind his back, his neck bent, eyes on the ground. He looks deep in thought, or like he is waiting for something. I see it in the way he occasionally raises his head, scans the horizon, a hint of a smile at the edges of his lips, the angle of his cheekbones.

I touch his shoulder and he stops, turns towards me. “Where are we going?” I ask.

“Towards hope,” he says. “It will meet us soon. I am bringing it closer.”

I open my mouth to ask what he means, close it when the words do not come out, and decide to just keep going. He speaks this way sometimes, in mysteries, and it always unveils itself, without my questioning.

I see her coming before he does, although I’m sure he has been watching her all along. He knows exactly where she is; I just happen to catch a glimpse of her first. She is running towards us. She is a just a little child; she cannot run in a straight line, or at an even speed. Her arms swing at her sides, sometimes it looks as if she will trip over her own  small feet. When he looks up and finally sees her, he grabs my hand and we speed up, his face breaking its repose. Now it is all alight.

It’s my daughter. I recognize her when she is still far off, and I grip his hand tighter.

She is laughing when we are finally face to face. I’m laughing. He is laughing. And the ground here is moist, but I kneel anyway, gather her into my arms. She has rocks in her hands, smooth black rocks, and she is excited as she presses them into my hands.

“Look what I found!”

And immediately, I understand. He looks at me, and it washes over me like the dawn. “She found the water,” I whisper. “She found the water.”

The rocks are cool, still wet, her hands are wet, her curls are wet. There is a river nearby, and she was there, splashing, bringing me proof of an enduring hope; this land will not always be barren. Even the roughest of surfaces can be polished and made new, he seems to say as he takes those rocks in his hands, if only they would let the water rush over them.

She lets me pick her up; I breathe in the scent of cool earth, of clear water and open spaces. Thankfulness is brimming over, because although there is a leaving behind, and a sadness at what has been lost, the restoration of our hope and the promise burgeoning in our hearts is seed sown into fertile soil. We wait. We wait.

The Lord has made proclamation to the ends of the earth:

'Say to daughter Zion,
See, your Savior comes!
See, his reward is with him,
And his recompense accompanies him.'

He is still standing there next to us. Thank you for sovereignty, I whisper. It is a great oak, and we can lie down under its shade. It shelters us, allows us to rest, to let go, to be. We can lean on this, trust in this, even when we do not understand.

He presses the rocks back into my hands, reminds me. He is pleased to tear down my cynicism, my doubt. It is as simple as this, he says to me. Together, we will always find the water.

She squirms from my arms, begins to run, and we chase her down, laughter ringing out to the horizon lines. It resounds. And yes, yes--there is hope.

He felt what the earth may possibly feel, at the moment when it is torn open with the iron, in order that grain may be deposited within it; it feels only the wound. The quiver of the germ and the joy of the fruit only arrive later.

-Victor Hugo, from Les Miserables

Hope is the thing with feathers, 

That perches in the soul

And sings the tune without the words

And never stops at all

-Emily Dickinson

 

An Ache & A Calling

I’ve been telling him for months that I can’t do this. That I am not strong enough, not wise enough; I don’t even look the part. My pleas are futile, I know this before I even begin. I am holding her close, and I cannot give her back; I cannot stop being a mother because it is terrifying, because my ignorance feels like paralysis.

“I’m going to wrap her up in layers of cellophane, then,” I tell him. “Holes for eyes, nose, and mouth, arms tight by her side, padded and protected. I’ll keep her ears covered so she doesn’t hear the ugly, the profane. Don’t speak unless you’re spoken to, I’ll tell her, and don’t make any waves. You’ll just get hurt.”

“You don’t mean that,” he says.

I shake my head. “No, no of course not. Cellophane is hot, sticky, uncomfortable. Maybe something more breathable.”

He catches my gaze; I am looking down, trying to avoid his eyes, because I know what he is going to say and I don’t want to hear it. I am not ready to hear it.

And then I am sitting at the dining room table with three precious friends, cup of hot tea between my hands. I’m gripping it so tightly my fingertips are going white and numb. A few leaves slipped through the filter and I’m watching them sink to the bottom of the mug, and oh, my God my God, nothing is certain and nothing feels steady and even a fine mesh filter couldn’t prevent these leaves from falling through.

Is this what it will be like? Slipping through the cracks on the periphery, because my mothering is not big enough, it is not wide enough, it simply cannot catch all of this. My tears are dripping off my chin and she hands me a napkin because love is letting your friends cry and sometimes all you need is a hand to hold, and someone to whisper I understand, because they do. They understand frailty and they understand fear, that weakness is inescapable and that sometimes you want to hold on but you can only let go.

I remember how I felt on December 14, just a few short months ago, when I heard about the Sandy Hook shooting, all those tiny children dead. I was sitting at my desk at work, and the tears wouldn’t stop. I hid in the bathroom, forehead pressed to cold tile--and the pain burned and it seared and I couldn’t understand how a mother could survive such a tragedy.

I held my hands out in front of me, I willed them to stop shaking so I could call my own mother, make sure my daughter was okay, safe, alive.

And that night, as I held my little girl his voice broke through the dark, through the confusion and the pain, not to ease it, but to validate it. “Motherhood,” he whispered to me. “It is an ache and a calling. To give in to the ache is the crux of the calling.”

But why must it hurt? Why must it hurt?

The ache is the fear. It drives me to irrational protection, why I pray she never hears a cruel word or knows malice or pain. But the ache is also the longing. He wakes me up in the night and my hands cover her heart, they cover her head, and it is these whispered midnight prayers, rising fragrant to the throneroom and oh Jesus, fill her cup with this ache and pour it out on her precious and sacred life.

This is the calling of motherhood, is it not? It is the growing up and the letting go. The call to release her back to the Lord, to relinquish control, to accept that perhaps her heart will be broken, she will know pain, she will face disappointment, that her life will not be without tears.

It is a fearful letting go, and I wonder if the fear ever entirely disappears, if we can live without apprehension for our children, if I will always fight this urge to shield her, to cover her ears, to cover her eyes when necessary, to make her numb to the arrows, to misfortune.

I am learning to let go. I am learning to trust, not in myself, or in my own abilities, but in the God who saves us, who promises to heal any broken pieces, to carry us faithfully to the end. I am giving in to the ache; it drives me to my knees, because to whom else can we go? It is not without fear, and I wonder if I have ruined my daughter already, with divorce and a broken family and a behemoth of uncertainty.

He shakes his head. I watch the leaves rise and fall in my teacup. My friends shake their heads.

It doesn’t work that way. The Kingdom does not work that way.

He works in the tension, in the less-than-ideal, in the place where we are bowed low. He has carried me. He will carry her. And perhaps this is the greatest calling of motherhood--to pick her up and place her in his arms, and walk together into the unknown, leaning into a goodness that does not fail.

Family Photos

Diana and I had some photos taken back in December. I realized we had very few pictures together, and of those, most of them were taken on my iphone with the front facing camera, so not very good quality. 

So I saved my pennies and we got some pictures taken! I'm awkward and don't know what to do with myself in front of a camera. Sweet little D is a natural though. She'd hurt her finger earlier that day so I put a band-aid on for her. She was very conscious of it, and if you notice, her little pointer finger is sticking out in almost every photo. I just love her!!

I hope you don't mind me sharing some of my favorites. (warning: photo overload)

 

 I think we'll try to do this every year. I treasure the few pictures I have of my childhood with my mom and me both in the photo. I hope Diana does too.