It's Been Quiet Here

I didn't intend to stay away for so long. But time snowballs, it piles up, it runs in circles around me. Has it really been over two months since I posted?

Summer has been long and hot and all kinds of overwhelming. It is typically my favorite season, sometimes I think I am made for summer. But this time around, I'm relieved it's almost over. I need a slower pace, space to think, time to write. I want to step outside and never come in.

At the beginning of July, I woke up one morning and was startled by my own loneliness, naked and stark. It sprung up from the earth fully grown, a solid apparition. I've been staring it down, decoding it, trying to unmoor it. These have been the moments of grace (one of these days I'll actually get in a photo).






Have I spent the last few years scarcely seeing? Or perhaps all of my life. Because every morning and evening I am alarmed by the sky. Something within me heaves and erupts. How did I miss this? A couple evenings a week at least, we get out to watch the sun descend. It's difficult to find a place with an unobstructed view without driving too far, but I try. It's a revelation, every time. We sit on a hill and I am a tightly wound spindle, thread pulled taut. The red flickers and expands. The sky was a muted blue, and now it is on fire, filling every crevice and empty space, burgeoning and full. I am being unwound, a tremulous unfurling. This is home.

I've spent the summer reading a lot of Annie Dillard and Madeleine L'Engle. This book is a constant companion. And this is one of the best things I read on the internet. It awakened something I worked hard to lull to sleep. It is good, searing.

I am stretching my fingers and leaning into this season. Loneliness does not have to be an enemy. I am hoping my best work will come from this place of transition, of discovery. I am praying for bravery, for the courage to step outside of what I know, to take risks, expand and stretch thin, make something beautiful of the small roundness of my life.

Thank you for walking with me. I will be back soon. The hiatus is over (I hope!)

Space at the Table

On June 19, I read this apology to the gay community from Alan Chambers, the founder of Exodus International. He acknowledged that the reparative therapy Exodus has championed is potentially harmful, and doesn’t work. He admitted that even his own same-sex attractions have not disappeared. Shortly after, the “ex-gay” ministry announced they were closing their doors.

And then yesterday, along with most Americans, I heard the news that the Supreme Court had struck down DOMA, the Defense of Marriage Act. They also dismissed the Proposition 8 case, which means gay couples can begin marrying again in the state of California.

I know this is a divisive issue. For some people, Christians especially, it is confusing and bewildering, emotions run high and many of us are just trying to figure out what in the world Jesus would do. I can’t answer that with any definitive certainty, and I won’t claim that I can.  I do know that we have said some terrible things in the name of God. I know that people have been hurt and ostracized and too many teenagers have put guns in their mouths, jumped off of bridges and swallowed handfuls of pills because they were rejected and pushed out, because they tried to change and found that they could not, because shame hounded them and we piled it on. I know that there is an entire group of people that have been made to feel as if they are second-class citizens, like they do not deserve the same protections under our laws because of their sexuality and who they choose to love.

I don’t know the answers. But I do know that I celebrate today. I celebrate with my gay brothers and sisters. You are a person. You matter. And your sexuality does not define you, should not determine whether or not you can visit your spouse in the hospital, parent or adopt a child, file joint tax returns, or receive federal benefits. I celebrate with you. I know that you are not gay because of your childhood, because of absent fathers or overbearing mothers, because it was too perfect or because it was terrible and scarring. I won’t tell you to close your eyes and pray to Jesus to make you straight. I know it doesn’t work that way. So many people have been hurt, deeply wounded. I’m sorry.

There is space at the table for you. Please, come, sit down, let’s raise our glasses. The Kingdom of heaven is near.

I know that I will get many things wrong in my life. I already have. I try to temper my strong opinions with good sense, to work them out in some kind of community, but even still, I will be wrong. I will make mistakes, errors of judgment, and I pray that I have the grace to apologize when it happens. But this, reaching out my hands, acknowledging that we are equals, that we love out of hearts formed by the same magnificent God, I can see no wrong in it.

So yes, there is space at the table for you. God does not “hate the gays”, he certainly does not hate you. Please, come, sit down, let’s raise our glasses. The Kingdom of heaven is near.

I’ve thought about this so much. It’s kept me up at night, poring over my Bible, reading and reading. I’ve written about it at length, so many pages, ruminating, turning it over. To be perfectly honest, I don’t know why I have felt so invested.  I don’t know why I cried when I heard the news yesterday morning, or why this feels like a downright personal struggle. I’m not gay. I don’t have a lot of gay friends. Maybe it’s because you’re on the fringe, because my heart is on the margins, and you have been marginalized. Maybe it’s because I feel like I need to apologize for my own misconceptions and judgments and the ways I’ve been misinformed and afraid and thoughtless.

Whatever it may be, I’m glad you’re here, I’m glad you can get married now, that this important civil liberty has been extended in your direction. I don’t think the fact that you’re gay is destroying the moral fabric of America, or any fabric really. We don’t begin and end with our sexuality. We are more than who we are attracted to. You are a whole person, a beautiful person, God-breathed and sustained by grace. He loves you. He wants to know you.

I know that some of you are faithful Christians who love Jesus with your whole heart, who along with the rest of us, are working out your salvation with fear and trembling. Yet you feel excluded, judged. I know some of you don’t believe at all, don’t want to believe, and maybe that’s our fault. Whatever the case, I will say it again, because it’s true—there is space at this table for you. We will make room. I will make room. He has made room. Please, sit down, breathe deep, you are loved.

In Which I Remember

I did something strange on Saturday. I've been wanting to do it all year, as a revisiting, stepping back over a past threshold.

I went back to the place where I was married five years ago. Diana was asleep in the car, so I couldn't wander too far, but I sat on a low stone wall and looked out over the small lake where we said our vows.

I didn't cry. It wasn't a great release or a terribly cathartic experience. It was quiet and sad and my hands shook a little. I closed my eyes and the memories rose like fog, shadow and ghost. That day five years ago became a part of me; it was a turning point, a great threshold, it is a memory that persists like longing.

It's good that I went back. I will probably go once more, this time alone, because there is so much I need to release. I am better, so much better, than I was a year ago, but I know that the healing is not finished (are we ever finished?), that there is still work to be done.  Part of that work is in the reliving, the task of going backwards, acknowledging the past, breathing it in and finally, breathing it out, releasing it.

My divorce, this painful chapter of my life, is begging for some ritual attention. I've thought about it a lot this past year, the fact that there is no formal ceremony, no commemoration, to mark the end of a marriage, the loss of love. It's a fraught desire, because no, I don't want a large gathering of people and a sermon and a funeral. But surely, there is something that can be done, a closure, an acknowledgment of grief, that something, although not a person, has died.

The going back to the place we said our vows was a part of that. It's why I will go back again.

How do you mark the beginnings and endings of the lifetimes that unfold within your life? How would you describe the different selves you've been across the years? Have you gone through or are you anticipating a change that could benefit from some ritual attention? How might you set aside a time, alone or with friends, in order to remember and to mark the passage; to name who you have been and who are becoming?

            -Jan L. Richardson, from In the Sanctuary of Women

When I read that passage last week, it validated much of what I have written in my own journals about this time period, about the expectations that have been disappointed in my life. There is tremendous value in remembering. Ritual validates our experiences, their importance in shaping our personhood, our past, present and future selves.

Part of my ritual will be dispelling the memories, acknowledging them. I just read A Severe Mercy, and for those of you that have read it, perhaps you too are reminded of Sheldon's "Illumination of the Past", his process of remembrance, dispelling memory, after his wife Davy dies. He goes through all of their old journals, travels back through the years, immerses himself in it. Will it look the same for me? I don't know. I do know that whatever it looks like, it will be essential for my wholeness, my peace, will hopefully prevent me from becoming a hardened, skeptical cynic. I fear I am well on my way.

So what I've kept rolled up tight, I'm feeling ready to let it all unfurl, to go there with Him. And you know, I'm thankful for all of it, for the story I carry, for what you carry, for the tremendous beauty of our ordinary lives. To live is a gift. To look at another human face, individual and distinct, so completely separate from me yet the result of the same great imagination, it is a miracle of the highest order, isn't it?

We each carry something. Every one of us, we are storytellers. I want to tell my own story well. I want to live this one life I'm given well, in whatever season, in darkness or in light. It's worth it, and I don't want to die a cynic.

Non-Writing Writer?

                  

All I'm doing is deleting. I had grand plans this month, to blog twice a week at minimum, three times a week and I'd be really awesome. I failed at that, obviously. I have close to ten half-written ramblings typed into my computer, even more in my notebook. I just deleted most of them; I'm tempted to rip a few pages out of my notebook, flush them, shred them, something.

I don't know what it is, but I seem incapable of producing anything worthwhile these days. I was full of ideas at the beginning of the month, really, just brimful. But when it comes time to actually sit down and get it out, translate what is in my head into actual language, all I get is a pile of shitty, unreadable first drafts. I hate first drafts. I barely have time to write, let alone to edit.

I feel like a non-writing writer. Is that even possible?

I guess I'll start over. I'm no good at keeping track of the small details that make up a life, to-do lists and all that jazz. I misplace things regularly and in some ways, am about as far from a Type A personality as you can get. But I do really, really care about this little writing space of mine, about the ideas and the stories and the opinions I am carrying. This matters to me, and I want to do it well.

I don't know that this post has a real point, except to say that I'm still out here, working on moving from non-writing writer to always-writing writer, even if it means a pile of first drafts for the trash pile. It's all progress, right?

So hey, if you know me and feel up to it, make sure I'm writing. Ask me about it. Be really mean about it if you want to. You won't hurt my feelings. There's nothing like a bit of pressure to get the mind whirring, the hands moving.

And here's to starting over, to making new plans. I'll get this figured out one of these days, hopefully very soon.

Blessed are the Peacemakers

  
Blessed are the peacemakers, for they will be called children of God.  

Matthew 5:9

Extending my hands and blessing the peacemakers today, those who sow peace in ravaged places, dark places, where the violence and the discord run deep, color the earth red.

They are there, in the tumult, where disorder rules, our egos stark and infernal; mine touches yours and it glitters and sparks and this may start a fire, a maelstrom to blot out the dawn. Their hands are in the fray, in the fissures where kindness slips and falls headlong, where pride is easy and love is hard.

To sow peace is to sow righteousness. To love peace is to love holiness. And I kneel low in this tabernacle heart of mine, this jar of clay reliquary of the holy, and I pray for peace in the world, for the wars that tear apart nations, for the blood spilled in the name of ego, of territory. It's lofty of me, isn't it?

But the root of bitterness is small, and it fans outward, climbs high like ivy, clings and adheres. We must shear it, begin at the beginning, with ourselves, myself.

I am doing the work of peace today, this week, hopefully for all of my life. I am severing the bitter roots, and it's hard work, it's humbling work, and most days I don't feel up to the task. But I long for peace on this earth, in my own relationships. And to you peacemakers who aren't afraid of the dark—your own or that of this whole, wide world—can I just bless you, child of God? Because what you do matters. The work of reconciling, uniting, crossing divides, holding out your hands to disparate peoples, warring families, working even on the breaches in your own life.

And it really does begin here, with my own ravaged, dark places, where my violence and the discord run deep, color my very own earth red, this soil of the soul. And He himself is our peace, my peace, he tears down the dividing walls, triumphs over contention, frees us up to extend mercy. I want the world to know, I want it to ring loud, a truth to free the oppressed because the oppressor himself is set free.

And so I will be a peacemaker. I am a peacemaker. And I begin today.

It Just Is

"Guess who I been thinkin' about? Casy! He talked a lot. Used ta bother me. But now I been thinkin' what he said, an' I can remember—all of it. Says one time he went out in the wilderness to find his own soul, an' he foun' he didn' have no soul that was his'n. Says he foun' he jus' got a little piece of a great big soul. Says a wilderness ain't no good, 'cause his little piece of a soul wasn't no good 'less it was with the rest, an' was whole. Funny how I remember. Didn't even think I was listenin'. But I know now a fella ain't no good alone."   -Tom, from The Grapes of Wrath (John Steinbeck)

I’m thinking about community, about friendship, about abandoning the periphery, leaving the sidelines every once in a while. Thinking about being a friend, having a friend, quitting loneliness and isolation, opening up to the communal, the common, the linked hands, one body, shared glory of the Kingdom.

It is an open-handed, open-hearted kind of thing. It is a sacrificial kind of thing. It is a journey to the center of self, to the center of others, to the center of him. It is intentional and a bit awkward, I bristle and sweat beneath it, and I swear I’m shedding skin over here.

I’m in my late twenties and I still feel socially awkward. This can’t be normal. I treasure my solitary pursuits and I’m afraid that fully embracing community entails abandoning those, if not entirely at least in part. I’m terrible at checking voicemails and returning phone calls. Sometimes I really don’t feel like talking, I’d rather just listen to you, or listen to those people over there I don’t even know, or trace the shape of the passing clouds on my daughter’s open hand.

Sometimes I talk too much and I’m afraid if I don’t stop no one will ever want to sit by me again. But someone asked me about writing, or empowering women and girls, or Harry Potter and now I can’t shut up. Seriously. Seriously.  I am not good at this. Extend a little grace as I figure it out?

It was easy in college, even for me. It was all communal living, shared spaces and activities. There was minimal effort, just show up. If I needed alone time, I stepped outside, took a walk, picked up a book and erected my invisible wall. It was the the quiet lapping of ocean water at my feet, the initial cold at first a sharp discomfort, but I could wade in as quickly, or as slowly, as I wanted.

These days, it feels a bit like all or nothing. It takes a lot more effort, and most of the time I feel

like I’m failing at this community thing, a round peg in a square hole, my edges don’t match up, am I really made for this?

Yes, yes. I need you. I know I need you. I couldn’t have made it through without you. And sometimes the loneliness looms large like a sea swell, and there are days we all need a hand to hold, a prayer whispered over our lowered head, to laugh until we ache together.

I wish it was still easy, but these days, connection takes work. Sure, there have been a few people in my life who I’ve met, and there were never any walls at all. We were soul-sisters, quickly. You get me. I get you. Let’s skip everything that comes in between and lay on the concrete under this night sky, counting stars and naming birds. But those people don’t come around too often, not for me anyway. I’m terrible (terrible) at small talk, but we have to begin somewhere, right? It’s uncomfortable and a little bit like stiff new clothes, but it’s the beauty of all of our humanity intersecting, my sharp edges bumping up against yours, you’re telling me your story, and it’s beautiful and rich and I’m so thankful to know you, that you are here.

This weekend, I sat with my pastor and friend Cory and I talked long and circular about the books handwritten in spiral notebooks in my garage and the books swirling like ether in my head. We talked about birthing words like birthing children, and we wondered why war metaphors make me squirm. I took my toddler to the bathroom, she strapped helmets on little boys’ heads, deft hands avoiding delicate skin, and we walked too far and got too sweaty.

It’s in the big; it’s in the small. Friendship is forged in the mundane, sharpened by circumstance, strengthened by difficulty. It’s in the showing up, the reaching out and up and in. My darkness is dark, I shrink back so that no one will see it. But it is your listening ear, the weight of your steady, unflinching gaze that presses the darkness up against the sky, stretches it thin, shatters it like a pane of glass, and oh Jesus, is that light breaking through?

Can we be this to one another? Can we figure this out together? I’m a clumsy friend, I’m probably too sarcastic and I swear too much. But I also love to listen, I love to pray, and I really want to hear your story. Let’s look to heaven together, wonder together, embrace one another. It’s not all wild and romantic and spiritual, it just is.

(And I really love this song. Community is so good for me).
 

the words don't come easy (but let's do it anyway)

“One day I will find the right words, and they will be simple.” 

Jack Kerouac

Let’s run after the fading light, my dear. Grab your bike, I’ve got your shoes, let me find my sunglasses, because the glare glints and gleams and I might be too blinded to notice you fall. Do you see the way the sun is drooping low, skimming the earth? We are surrounded by brown stucco houses, ringed in by mountains, and from where we stand we cannot see the horizon lines. But they are out there, and the sun is slipping below, lighting up the southern hemisphere even as we are met by darkness.

I think, my darling, this might be my favorite time of day. Walking with you, watching the light sharpen then fade, the streets half-clothed in dusk—these are the small miracles that sustain me. You’re really excited about your bike today. Except that you insist on riding it down the highest part of the curb, over and over again, and you keep falling off. Your knees are all scraped up, but you must not mind, because you keep doing it. Where can I find this kind of courage, persistence? Can you teach me how to keep trying?

The other kids are going inside. There are goosebumps on your legs, the cool breeze is lifting my hair. But let’s stay out a little while longer. Do you mind? I didn’t think so. This evening, it belongs to us, and it’s fine that you don’t want to hold my hand, that you’d rather run ahead. I’ll carry your bike; this is exactly why I bought the lightest one I could find. My arms are thin, the hills get steep.

I’ve been feeling uninspired lately. The words don’t come easy. I wish that creativity was simple, always flowing like a clear river. But it is complicated, and today, this week, it is a muddied river, full and polluted, being forced through a narrow inlet. But I see clear seas ahead, and you know how I crave open spaces, the wide, wide earth, fierce and wild and free.

I am searching for my voice in the tumult, fighting the impulse to compare, to measure up, to be someone I am not. I love words. I am not alive unless I am creating something with words. I am gathering up ideas,  I am laying them out in the sun to dry, because some of them are like crumpled scraps of paper, sopping wet and weighty. They need air, to be seen in the light, examined. But sorting through it all is difficult; it is work I am afraid of, intimidated by.

So I begin here, with the sacred everyday, the mundane and the common and the beautiful holy. The evening light, a slow bike ride, your lengthening curls and the way we bend to examine the rocks in the cracks of the sidewalk. I begin with what I know, who I know.

Creativity will never be as straightforward as I wish it was. It is less like a fully-stocked pantry and more like manna, enough for today. Sometimes it is compulsion, I could just write and never stop, and sometimes it is labor, hard work that I push through because if I don’t, I am not alive. So come alive with me, why don’t you? What awakens you, rises like the morning within you?  Let’s feel again.