a gray day, with all the Christmas worn off

The stillness of the fog wraps itself around me; a gray day, with all the Christmas worn off.

Looking up at the cottony white sky through the stark reality of leafless trees, I feel comforted as though wrapped in a blanket. No more this season will the harsh glare of the neighbors' decorative lights dispel the quiet darkness on our side of the decoration-less street. The lower boughs from the too-large-tree I brought home, the last one for sale at the Market that day, remain on the picnic table, never formed into a wreath for the front door. Our tree, still taking up too much space in our small front room, shows itself off with the bare minimum of lights, ornaments and garlands. The irony of my art business primarily concerning itself with decorating the homes of others is not lost.

The buche de noel was never prepared, nor was a gingerbread house or sugar cookies. Eight tiny bundt cakes, sweet potato Guinness gingerbread with cream cheese frosting, came forth as gifts, miraculously, as the cakes stuck to the pan forcing me to put their pieces back together and the frosting starting out quite lumpy threatened to stay that way. Chocolate fudge emerged after a tiny bit of water spilled into the chocolate I was melting for the turtle candies, forming itself into an uncreative shape with undesired texture. In my younger years I would have never dreamed of remaking fudge, as finicky as it is, but my curiosity often gets the better of me these days. I can barely get myself to follow recipes anymore as random ingredients find themselves joining in the fun.

I have been told that my Christmas letter is often read after the holiday when those who think I have something to say savor it with a cup of hot chocolate on a winter's day. To come forth with my truth year after year is a responsibility I do not take lightly. I realized, however, after the fact, that my original idea of pointing out how outrageous it was for my now former doctor to say I was "good enough," causing me to wonder how that would go over if, for example, an airplane pilot said he did not fully inspect the instruments but it was "good enough," or an anesthesiologist said the patient may not be administered enough medicine to be put under for surgery, but it was "good enough," was lost.

We took back the gift I ordered at the last possible minute that did not show up until two days after Christmas and then was not the one desired. Ordering online, then printing out a return address label and getting reimbursed electronically, minus shipping, makes life exceedingly easier than it used to be. UPS has a customer service center about a mile from our house with two employees eager to talk and willing to tape up the package themselves. Gifts are problematic. Whatever is given is not really the point; it is the representation of the sentiment. We try, we fail, we love. We will do it all again.

This is day six, the six geese-a-laying day, of the twelve days of Christmas. More homemade food will come forth to be enjoyed. There is yet time. Reading and drinking hot chocolate come next. Pondering what is or what is not "good enough" requires more thought. And since our Christmas tree lights have only been up for about a week, I have plugged them in so they can yet shine forth as a beacon to penetrate the foggy darkness up and down our street, as this year soon comes to its end.

O come let us adore Him.

reflection

I have thought better than to copy and paste my recent Christmas letter in this blog for two reasons: 1) There is family information that will make no difference to anyone who does not personally know me--though I often think the list of those who actually know me is far smaller than the number currently on it; and 2) I have misspelled a word I just realized in horror while rereading the letter. In the letter I refer to a situation in which I was humiliated in public using the word "publicly" but spelling it "publically," which is wrong. I know no one cares. Except for me.

There are, however, some happenings along my journey worth sharing that I was not even made aware of until about a month ago. Funny how we can trudge through our lives without knowing how our prayers are being answered until we stop long enough to ask for help.

This happened, of all places, while I was pumping gas. In the moments it took for me to stand, leaning next to my vehicle waiting for the tank to be filled, my brain was free to ponder. I had just cried my way home from an Advent Retreat I had attended at a Quaker church in which my friend led the study. We were to contemplate the hope candle lit during the first week of Advent. It was December and I had been trying to find hope all year. What happened to it? Where could I find it? Suddenly, God was rewinding the tape of the year and replaying it to give me the answer.

On one of my worst Sundays in recent memory, I decided to spend the afternoon with a group of people who had gathered in the fellowship hall of a Presbyterian church downtown to make scarves for the homeless. I have been sewing since I was 10 and knew that no matter how badly I felt about situations I was having to endure, I could sit and sew. The challenge would be to keep myself from pouring out my emotion on unsuspecting strangers. Stitching hearts onto scarves turned out to be the healing balm I needed. I would begin to talk and laugh with others at the table by the end of the day.

Looking for classes, a counselor, something to hasten my healing, I stumbled upon a Bible study that would be led by a man I knew from years before at a church nearby. Walking into a group of 16 people and only knowing the leader was much harder for me than anyone probably realized. I forced myself to participate knowing that if I did not speak the first meeting, I would probably not return for the second. As part of the class I even wrote a prayer that I shared along with my tears. They kindly invited me to their church, as I thanked them, returning to my own.

Silent retreats on the first Friday of the month became a regular event for me during the summer months. It had been so long since I was afforded the time to sit and listen for God's voice in the bird songs, the wind, and the raindrops on the lake. It was a rehab for my soul, a fountain of joy for my spirit. No talking allowed. Thank you Jesus.

I had been working hard to regain my health with no results. I had worked out, eaten correctly and had not lost one pound. Not one. Sitting across from my physician whom I have not trusted since he switched me to a synthetic hormone in the midst of menopause, causing the bottom to fall out of my life, and hearing him tell me that I was "good enough" as I considered the weight gain and fatigue let alone the many, many nights in which sleep completed eluded me, a switch clicked in my head. ENOUGH! I would finally force myself to find someone who could really help me.

By the time this new medical person would run the lab tests that amounted to pages and pages of how depleted I was and how stress was the culprit, I was ready to fight. Again. For my body, however, it is taking more time. But there is hope.

In October when I was relieved that the women's only 5k had to be cancelled because of rain since I truly was not prepared for it, I found myself at a women's retreat, and then called out from the pulpit by an old friend. She may not have thought much of it. For me to be publicly (NOT publically) recognized, instead of humiliated was the source of great hope. It was especially satisfying since I was sitting with women with whom I used to go to church. I was being valued and shown love.

By Thanksgiving I eagerly attended the Interfaith Thanksgiving service at a local synagogue even going early to sing with the choir, something I never fully intended to do at my own church. By this point, I felt somewhat invincible when it came to wandering into places of worship alone. 

God showed me that I had in fact found hope in every place I had looked. Hope greeted me at the door with open arms. Hope gave me a place to sit and listened to my stories. Hope walked hand in hand with me during my loneliest days. Hope never disappointed, though I had forgotten it was there at times.

What follows is how I ended my story in my Christmas letter about finding hope.  

"I read and prayed, constantly seeking healing for my wounded heart, but it seemed to be breaking open further. With each new experience, my ability to care for others expanded. New people with new issues; different believers yet the same truth.

I struggled to understand a God who kept peeling off the bandages I was finding to bind my wounds. And yet, by gently keeping the wound open, and not allowing closure, I have become aware of what true healing looks like. Healing is intricately linked with compassion. I always thought if my wounds could ever be completely healed, I would become a more effective leader, friend, child of God. Just the opposite is true. Disappear the wound to provide superficial closure, and the healing work stops. In order to bear another’s burdens, our hearts need to remain open, as in: never really healed.

We are to open our hearts to whomever he places on our journey. We are to seek him when we are not equipped to handle life, which is always. He binds our conscience and our hearts. As the Great Physician, he skillfully stitches us together in the way that is best for each of us, not according to our ways, but his—which ARE good enough! This is where hope is."

I then make a lame attempt at a joke about the Year of Jubilee versus Cherries Jubliee; one being a time of celebration and the other being covered in liquor and set on fire. It seemed funny to me at the time as I come to grips with my desire to celebrate often going up in flames, alcohol or no alcohol. 

Life is tough. It is. And no amount of coaxing will get me to state otherwise. That does not, however, mean that I have lost hope. In spite of my own proclivities, hope has found me.

discordant harmony

Walking past the fountain toward the entrance of the synagogue last night, I noticed a man standing near the entrance dressed in a dark suit sizing me up as I made direct eye contact to reassure him I was coming in peace. It reminded me of when I made a trip to New York City in the 80's and showed up at a Messianic Congregation unannounced, causing a momentary stir as those greeters had to quickly decide whether or not I was safe to allow inside. The Diary of Anne Frank came to mind as I was given access into their closed-off room to worship with them in spirit and in truth.

Ushered into the chapel, I found a seat among those who came to rehearse songs for the interfaith choir of the evening. As with many situations in which I find myself, I had no idea what I was doing, but felt profoundly happy trying to do it anyway.

Having been a part of a choir at my church for a number of years, I knew a couple of the songs. We all knew America the Beautiful which would end the service. And then there was a beautiful Hebrew song with translated English words. As we sang together it became obvious we were not all singing the same word. The choir director's manner was professional, almost abrupt were it not for the humor in this voice: "If you are Christian you will sing AMEN (pronounced ah-men); if you are Jewish you will sing AMEN (pronounced uh-main). It's all the same!" And so it was.

Entering the sanctuary was like being invited to the kind of party I think of when heaven is described. Jews, Presbyterians, Methodists, African Methodist Episcopalians, Unity, Society of Friends, Greek Orthodox, Catholics were among those who came. A folk singer with an Irish sounding name sang about healing; a black choir proclaimed the mightiness of God; various clergy spoke words of wisdom.

I was taken aback by the Imam of the Islamic Center who spoke eloquently from a sensitive spirit. He would need to teach us about the Koran since it is outside of the experience of most in the room. Because this was a Thanksgiving service he spoke of giving. A smile is considered charity as is removing a stick from a path where others will walk. He said everything belongs to God; abundance is in the heart.

Everything belongs to God. This is exactly what I believe! We are to give back to God a portion of what he already gave us, and give to others knowing that our provision is from the Lord.

We would hear from two directors of homeless shelters whose impassioned words could stir the coldest heart. We would be stretched further than opening our hearts to those of different beliefs; we would also consider those referred to as the least among us. All people--needing to find God; needing to be fed, clothed and given shelter; needing to be loved.

As I stood at the front singing with our make-shift choir and the clergy, I sensed conflict within the joy. The conflict comes when I am forced to think of individuals as groups. My beliefs are my own as are the beliefs of each one of us. We do not all agree on everything. We tend to be fearful of what we have not experienced.

I have had the good fortune of knowing personally a Muslim family who have shown me nothing but kindness. One of the sons played club soccer with one of my sons and the bond of friendship continues. When I think of Muslims, I think of them.

I have also had many Jewish friends starting when I unknowingly moved into what was considered the Jewish dorm at MSU. Some of the most wonderful people I have ever known are among them.

Living in different places, experiencing cultures unlike my own, my heart has been opened to a vast array of people each seeking after God in their own ways. Even those not actively pursuing a supreme being are looking for ways to live in peace with their neighbors and contribute to the world around them.

It is written in the Bible that we are to love the Lord our God with our whole heart, mind, soul and strength. Following immediately after that verse is: "Love your neighbor as yourself." Jesus says it all hinges on this--all the Law and the Prophets. Who is our neighbor? Ask the Samaritan.

My mind wants to tell me it is far more complicated than I am making it sound. It is.

But my heart will continue to sing in harmony with those who seek to love each other. Amen.

learning through experience

Plastic masquerade masks with eye holes covered with duct tape are going to be needed for the next experiential activity, we are told. I put mine on over my glasses, immediately wondering if I should have taken my glasses off first. We are encouraged to hold hands with those standing on either side of us. Relieved, I take the hand of one woman I know fairly well; the other one not so much. The activity is to navigate blindly a rope maze until each one of us discovers the way out.

When the command to find the rope is given, the women immediately let go of my hands. I can hear voices moving away from me and though I wave my hands around, they come into contact with no one. I cannot understand how anyone can know where the rope is since it is not within my reach. Perhaps they have skills I do not possess. Or worse, maybe I am being set up.

What if the others are only pretending to be doing a rope maze? They could be speaking out a script that has me believing they are engaged in the same activity when in reality they may be standing around the perimeter while I am the one left in the center of the room, alone. Not that I would have been intentionally chosen ahead of time to be the one tricked, but maybe it was bound to happen to the last one in line. Or maybe it was going to happen to the one who turned the wrong direction and did not find the rope--if there is, in fact, a rope.

Because this thought process could quickly deteriorate into emotional consequences for me, I need to collect myself by making a brief mental summary of all I know. 1) I am in the same room where we started; 2) There are still people in the room even though I have no way of knowing how many or if any of them are still blindfolded; 3) I am being watched and probably filmed; 4) I am not wandering lost in the dark because the lights are surely still on; 5) This is just a game.

I cannot allow anyone to know the terror I feel in the darkness behind my mask.

I call out, or at least think I do. Maybe I am so inside my head I can no longer communicate outwardly. I am pretty sure no one is listening to me anyway. I hear someone say, "Look at her hands," how they continue to be extended for self-protective reasons. Poor hapless soul. This is what abandonment looks like.

Counting the cost of possibly running into someone or the wall, I inch myself in one direction until I find the rope. Even if I am the last person to finish, there has to be an end to this activity. With no one to guide me, I find the way out myself.

In analyzing the activity, a correlation is drawn to our spiritual lives. I am asked what was going on with me when I was wandering around in the middle of the room while everyone else had seemingly put their hands on the rope. How could I explain the sense of confusion and loss I felt when everyone else seemed to find the way when I could not? Had this been one of those team-building exercises in which I was supposed to fall backward into someone's arms, I would have opted out. Trust no one has always been my motto. Good thing that was not the experiential activity. What would this say about my spiritual condition within my faith community?

I knew in the end I would survive, which I pointed out. I am a survivor.

Unlike others who seemed to be able to form an entire theology about the meaning of the rope, the importance of following it, and the need for community support along the way, I admitted I was not even sure of the existence of the rope. Someone said if I needed help, I should have asked for it. I did ask for help. Either no one heard me or my call for help was ignored. The result was the same. And who were they to think they could offer assistance when they were just as blindfolded as I was? Being led by someone as blind would have given me no more hope of achieving the goal than going it alone. Of course, having a hand to hold made me feel less afraid.

Psychological studies can be done with this sort of activity. The strong type A personalities forge ahead on the path, blindfolds be damned. Those with other kinds of personalities configure a variety of alternative ways to the same end. And then there is me, who is not at all sure that what we are supposed to be in search of is really even there. I have no way to win.

Surrender is counter intuitive. How do we hope to make it out of the rope maze if we give up?

And yet, only God can lead me out of the darkness. He is the only one who ever really has.

here I am

Here I am, Lord. Is it I Lord?
I have heard You calling in the night.
I will go, Lord, if You lead me.
I will hold Your people in my heart.

(Here I Am Lord by Dan Schutte, 1981)

I had been associating this song with my childhood until I realized it came out in 1981, when I was already in college. It is the message of the song that brings me back to my early years--the desire to go wherever the Lord leads me.

I remember walking through a young orchard set out by my dad, with trees no bigger than sticks poking up from the ground, sporting the small bags of awful smelling stuff we tied around their tender trunks to keep the deer from eating them before they had a chance to grow. I took a lot of walks, then and now, always trying to figure out my life.

"The grass withers, the flower fades, but the word of our God stands forever," [Isaiah 40:8] is a verse I would contemplate as I walked from the house, past the barn, through the corn field, up the hill and over to the young orchard near the asparagus field. It excited me that words, something I loved even more than grass and flowers, could outlast them. 

Whether I was sitting in the large tree on the side of the hill where I would rest among the leaves or on a patch of soft, green moss in the quiet of the woods, I was always talking to God and wondering what he would say to me. Was he happy with me? How could I be of service in his kingdom? Where would he send me?

The cold, dark nights out on the farm made me hope he was calling to me. I did not worry about intruders into our rural lives as we lived where only others who lived nearby traveled. I was more concerned with heeding the call. I did not want to miss it.

Holding people in my heart is what I have always done, which makes this song resonate with me so strongly. I have held people there since I was asked to pray for those who had gone before, out of purgatory and into heaven. I prayed for the sick and for the dying. I prayed for the brokenhearted and those celebrating life's joys. I prayed for those I knew and those I did not know. I prayed for those related to me and those I would never know.

Had I not been so boy-crazy I may have ended up in a convent!

While taking one of those walks with my husband yesterday we talked about the notion of "home" and I remembered the C. S. Lewis quote: "If we find ourselves with a desire that nothing in this world can satisfy, the most probable explanation is that we were made for another world."

When one is being led by a power greater than oneself and making choices along the way that change everything, certainty becomes a relative term. Home is with whomever God puts on your path. Home is in the woods and near water--where I first sensed his presence and heard him calling to me.

We sang Here I Am Lord recently at my Presbyterian church where I continue to hold people in my heart--tearfully, joyfully, and with a sense of purpose.

I heard you calling. I have gone where you have led me. Here I am.

my name

If I were to be a superhero, my power would be invisibility--not because I would choose to be invisible; it is what I default to, like a computer going back to its original settings. It is the lie I tell myself sometimes in order to deal with life.

Like the small child in full view who covers her eyes saying, "You can't see me," I am seen.

I decided to go to a women's conference by myself. Not looking for any more than the chance to say hello to the speaker whom I had not seen in years, I decided it would be easier to just show up, and try my best to fade into the crowd of women who gathered in a small church with tissue boxes at the end of every other row.

Almost immediately a woman, probably not far from my mother's age, approached and asked if she could join me. I was not sure if she was a plant from the church urged to welcome in the strays or if she was looking for companionship herself. Shortly thereafter some women I used to go to church with walked in and I chose to reach out, literally, grabbing the sleeve of the one closest, in order to reunite with them. Joining me, I became part of a group, yet in many ways remained alone.

I came expecting nothing. A veteran at these sorts of gatherings, I knew the ways things work.

First we would sing praise songs which I have not kept up with since my musical tastes have expanded to include a wider repertoire, and yet the nature of these sorts of songs are such that anyone with any kind of musical ability can join in. They are predictable and repetitious in their simple beauty.

There would be introductions and welcoming statements. I would wonder if I would see others whom I knew.

The talk given by the speaker would be brilliant as she is not only a gifted actor but a woman who has sought the Lord and has found Him. Her pronunciation of words would rival the most seasoned newscaster; her stage presence: mesmerizing. If ever there was an ideal woman to answer this sort of call in her life--it would be her.

Authenticity was the theme I would realize as I comforted myself with the false notion that what that meant for me was to be invisible. No one would be harmed by this subtle choice, the script in my head continued. It is ok, I told myself. I am fine.

Before I would return the next day for more singing and a moving dramatic presentation; before I would hear more of this woman's personal trials and triumphs in life; before another complete stranger would reach out to me in the brief friendship a women's conference affords; something I never expected happened.

As I sat in my invisible space prepared for anything, the speaker looked out into the faces of women eager to learn from her, seeing those whom she had known during her formative years; women from a previous church; women she hoped would receive her message and at the end go forward to choose a name written on a card that would more authentically identify them than the names we make up for ourselves out of our insecurity, pain, and self-protection; she would gently lift my invisibility cloak replacing it with the acknowledgement of my existence, a precursor to the name, "Healed" I would stumble upon when I went up to the altar the next day, and before everyone there, would say, "Thank you for coming . . . Mary Ellen."  

8 hours

Sleep cannot be overrated. Eight hours of it in a row with only one interruption, is a gift from God.

Achieving balance within my spirit, mind, and body has been my goal as of late, perhaps because for the past couple of years an imbalance has threatened my peace, controlled my emotions and taken it out on my body. It was not until I ventured into an integrative medical practice, reviewing my overall health with the nurse practitioner who asked about my spiritual and emotional condition as well, that it began to resonate with me just how closely all parts of my being are connected.

It is tricky when dealing with depression, for example, because that is a symptom of hypothyroidism, a chronic condition for which I was being seen, but is also an emotional result of fatigue and stress, as well as an indicator of spiritual oppression. The simple question: how are you? is not always easy for me to answer.

Sleep eludes one who is not physically well, and has a lot on her mind or in her heart as she seeks spiritual direction. Sleep, once a refuge, a respite from the cares of the world, can seem like a vast amount of wasted time as the hours tick by and the body does not find rest. As my mind and spirit would continue to reach out for rest during waking hours, a malaise would often settle over me. There is little relief when there is no balance.

Today is a new day.

For the first time in a long time, I slept--deeply and peacefully, awaking only when the alarm I had set an hour before I am supposed to get up rang so I could take the new natural hormones I have been prescribed. It is a stronger dosage than before because a wider range of testing proved the previous medication was deficient in fully treating my symptoms--the ones affecting my outlook on life.

Much good can be said for eating a balanced diet and making sure one is getting regular exercise. When I am stressed, I do not eat. When physical pain causes me to stop exercising . . . the downward cycle continues. Each part affects the whole.

This morning the blurry view of an overwhelming amount of work ahead is replaced by a keen sense of purpose. It is taking me less effort to smile, more willingness to pray, genuine feelings of love and compassion for others.

Sleeping eight hours makes me feel like I am on vacation--except I got to sleep in a comfortable bed instead of on a camping cot. Eight hours of sleep is the kind of gift I wish I could give to others.

Maybe if we all slept more, the world would be a better place.

a choice

"You have a choice," are the words I hear, as though spoken aloud, as I transition from a state of sleep to wakefulness.

As I make my way through the dark hallway, with our quiet black dog I sense following me, I open the door and walk outside into the cool morning air. The stars are still out, arranged brightly in their infinite patterns. I feel hopeful as I gaze up into the vastness of a universe created by a Creator so immense my finite mind cannot comprehend how my tiny issues could ever figure into His plan. And yet somehow they do. I can choose to believe in a predetermined nature of things or in randomness. I can choose to have hope or allow it to fade away like the stars at dawn when the sky brightens and a new day begins. I have a choice.

Back inside, I feed the dog and get myself a cup of coffee. We go back down the hall to settle into our morning routine: sitting in front of my computer listening to a daily devotion, as the dog curls up in his chair and goes back to sleep. Birds welcome in the dawn with their singing as the first colors, pink and purple, are replaced by orange and yellow that can now be seen through the trees. It is the quiet I love most. I could work on my sewing, continue reading a book I started yesterday, or any number of other tasks. I choose to sit in the stillness, listening to the variety of bird songs and the rhythmic breathing of my dog. I have a choice.

I think back to the other day when I had invited an older pastor friend who has given me good counsel to join me for coffee so we can talk things over. It has been awhile since we had talked and even though there were brief email exchanges, I am not at all certain he is going to show up when I walk into the bookstore coffee shop where we had met in the past. By the time he is officially late, I decide to buy myself a cup of coffee and sit in the back of the store in one of the comfortable chairs looking out the window. I can overhear bits and pieces of a conversation behind me that sound like a job interview. The interviewee speaks in an overly excited tone, the kind he imagines the interviewer wants to hear. I think about the ways I have tried to portray myself so others will listen more intently, take what I have to offer more seriously. I have reached an age in which I can expend my energy trying to be understood or not care as much about what those who do not know me think about me. I have a choice.

Half an hour late, I realize my friend may in fact not be able to meet with me. I drink my coffee slowly keeping a check on my emotional state. I know whether he shows up or not, this will be our last counseling session. Sometimes I just know these things. So I sit looking at the titles of the books on the shelves, breathing deeply, reminding myself not to cry. You have a choice, I tell myself. Whether you stay or whether you go changes nothing, my self-talk continues. You already know the unanswerable questions. You know them by heart. You ask them all the time. You keep thinking you are going to somehow stumble upon a scenario that will be the absolute perfect one and there you will dwell. But real life doesn't work that way. That may be why you find yourself looking into these books so often. You long to live in a way that cannot be. You want to live in a world that does not exist. You like to play make-believe, thinking things can be how you want them to be. But they can't. And they will never be . . . this side of heaven. You have a choice. You can decide to take whatever happens for what it is or you can walk away from it--figuratively speaking, that is. You cannot really walk away from anything because it is going to be tagging along after you. It is you.

I have a choice.

the storyline

The smooth, white object, once the inner part of a shell, is handed to me signifying my turn to talk. I had struggled all day during the silent retreat trying to sort out what I would say at the end when we gathered to share. I was not at all sure whether I would be able to hold myself together. In the end, I fail to restrain my emotions. I succeed, however, in sharing my heart.

A friend told me recently not to take it personally, but my emotional component serves as a signal--a harsh, glaring beacon--to those in leadership, warning them to avoid expending their precious time and energy in dealing with it.

What this speaks to me, albeit not her intention, is that I am not worthy of love and should expect nothing more than to be abandoned because of my woundedness. Though I have fought hard to not be THAT woman, apparently I have failed. It is not possible for me to be an effective leader as long as I am . . . me.

It would take me awhile to realize that my friend may have considered the emotional condition I was in during our conversation and from there had extrapolated the frame of mind in which I would most likely serve in my leadership roles. Though I do not compartmentalize my life, acting differently in each scenario, I try to reserve my intensity for the handful of friends who know me well, and not those with whom I share leadership responsibilities.

A woman at the retreat told me it is not our emotions we hold onto, but the storyline that goes along with them. At last, an explanation that makes all the sense in the world to me.

Emotions are fleeting. They come and go all the time. Developing a social awareness of appropriate behavior comes as we tailor our emotional make-up to the environments in which we find ourselves. This on-going evaluation of how much of ourselves we can share with others guides us. I have learned, often the hard way, it is not safe for me to open my heart to just anyone--only a few.

The storyline, however, accompanying the emotions--that is a whole different thing.

The journalist in me wants to know who, what, when, where, why, and how. I want the facts checked with original sources. I look for corroborated details and reliable witnesses. Direct quotes, motives, time and place; I want to know exactly what happened and why--not the condensed, sanitized version of the story I am supposed to accept as truth, the be all and end all to the story.

Fact-finding missions can lead to deep emotions when truths are revealed. Move on, I am told, the future awaits. But as others are not as curious as I am, their need to investigate ends a long time before mine does, leaving me with no one to talk to but the elephant in the room.

History has a way of repeating itself. Reflecting on how we would like to conduct ourselves differently may mean we actually consider what happened, why it happened, and if there is something we could each do to make it not happen again. But this requires a deeper look into the emotional well, and frightens many a hardy soul as he or she must face whether there is water in the well to draw from or if it went dry a long time ago.

Complexities arise when one decides what the narrative is as it is transformed through the telling and retelling, solidifying a new reality within the minds of those in its hearing. The story takes its place among the folklore and myth created by those who name themselves storytellers. They become the sources for information and over time their version is the only acceptable one.

Meanwhile back with my elephant friend, I attempt to gather more information. But by this point it is too late. The story has already been written. It may as well have been put in print or carved in stone. I have questions I can no longer ask. Emotions I am no longer allowed to feel. Confusion as to how I ever ended up holding onto something others have let go of; questions as to what it will take for me to do the same.

Leading wholeheartedly is what I am after--a worthy goal as each shard of my shattered heart is fit back into place, soldered together like a stained-glass window, with a supernatural adhesive that promotes forgiveness and healing. It is a transformation that begins when I surrender my incessant need to edit the storyline, and allow the Author who can see the end from the beginning to write the story.

As for my time with the elephant in the room--that too has had its upside. Elephants have exceptionally accurate memories and are highly intelligent creatures. Perhaps I have been in good company after all.

taking inventory

Sometimes I forget who I am.

Not because of early onset Alzheimer's or some form of denial, but more precisely--who I am supposed to be in each particular context at any given time.

On the stage of life, I play many roles.

I am a Presbyterian.
In my church I am a newcomer by the standards of those whose relatives settled here long ago.
As a soprano in the choir I strain to sing high enough, mindful to wear a skirt with a hem low enough.

Finding a place at the table of the Lord within a faith community is not for the faint of heart.

I serve on the board of directors for my church's daycare center.
I am a church lady without any financial training overseeing the operation of this non-profit.
I am often a silent witness.

I choose to be thought a fool than to speak up and remove all doubt, as the saying goes.

I am a ruling elder, the Stated Clerk of Session, and leader of the worship and arts team.
I am one of the youngest members, born in the North, raised as a Catholic. I am a woman.
I weigh what I say and do carefully, not taking my ordination lightly. I want to please God.

What I thought leadership would look and feel like is somewhat different than how it really is.

I am a regular vendor at a farmers' market and on the vendor advisory council.
I am not sure if the farmers know that I grew up on a farm; I am a crafter--the bed bunny lady.
We are all small business owners coming to the market to sell our wares.

We barter; we support one another. We only know each other according to what we sell.

I am one of 24 women on staff at a Baptist church preschool.
I am not drawn toward anything laminated or at what sometimes passes as the arts for children.
I am not a teacher who writes, but a writer who teaches; an artist with a day job.

Babies smile at me and fall asleep in my arms. They know who I am.

I am part of the art community.
Spirituality takes on infinite expressions; judgment not permitted--Guinness welcomed.
Inspiration and creativity come before marketing and self-promotion. We all long to be known.

We seek to touch the hearts and minds of those who want to understand what we have to share.

I am a daughter, sister, aunt, neighbor, citizen, and friend.
Lover of dogs, camper, hiker, coffee drinker, someone who keeps asking questions and seeking truth.
I am an observer of life, a collector of quotes, an admirer of music and art. I love books.

Dream with me. Together we can celebrate life. This is my business slogan.

I am a mother of sons who excel without excuse or the need for others to get competitive.
A mother who has spoiled her boys with the kind of food that makes them not want school lunch.
A mother who will keep believing all is well right up to the point in which it is not.

Motherhood has made me less selfish, and more fierce.

I am the wife of a chemistry teacher who revived his teaching at a traditionally black high school.
I married him when he was in food service which he still does on weekends for a catering company.
Eating healthy with him has added years to my life. He runs marathons; I am a runner of 5Ks.

We manage our household together. What we lack in resources, we make up for in faith.

I am a writer.
It is all I have ever wanted to be.
To express myself in writing is how I translate life, which is why I am taking inventory now.

I choose to serve God with my mind--a choice given me long after I put away the hope for a career.

I am a beloved child of God.
I try not to create division, rather erring on the side of love. I just say no to politics.
I look for ways to reach across beliefs that divide us to discover that which we all hold dear.

I can only be who I am, without shame, playing out all of these roles before an audience of One.

on the precipice

In the midst of unpacking from our recent camping trip to the beach, I notice sticking out from the pile of mail on the counter, a small, padded manila envelope addressed to me.

Though it had been awhile, I recognize the handwriting as unmistakably that of my estranged sister-in-law. I read what seems to be a new return address, still in California, and figure I may as well open it and get it over with--my prevailing thought: What does she want this time?

Pulling the tab at the back of the envelope reveals a gift box from a museum along with a folded sheet of notebook paper. Inside the box is an exquisite green jade bead necklace.

In the one page letter, she tells me she had a few days off from work giving her the opportunity to sort through belongings as well as the emotions they provoked apparently, as friends and family were brought to mind. She makes mention of the necklace, explaining that it was purchased by her mother's sister during a trip she made to China. She remembers my fondness for it; I do not.

She then says she regrets the exchanges we had during her mother's illness and death, and apologizes for hurting me.

One sentence. And I am hurtled back through time and space.

The year is 2004 and we, as in, my husband and our three sons ages 11, 8, and 5, struggle to make ends meet. The matriarch of my husband's family is in her final days, weeks, months. All we know is that difficult decisions seem to be continually before us. We are aware that navigating through this time is something new, different, and painful. We are not always able to do or say the right things. We react instead of respond. We have no idea what we are doing most of the time.

I take on the role of translator as the only adult involved not biologically related. As his family is in crisis, this is my way of offering assistance, not because my family of origin is any less dysfunctional, but because I do not have the history and emotional triggers that keep setting off the members of this family. But try as I may, I am ineffective and have no recourse other than to withdraw.

This is problematic for me because I see my marriage to my husband as giving me a place; a voice in his family. I realize over time, however, it does not always work that way.

On a particularly trying day I cry out to God for wisdom, as I rock in my chair seeking comfort for the pain. I have reached the point in which I want to hurt my sister-in-law as badly as she has hurt me. I try to think of something I can do that is as shocking as some of the decisions she has made. As misguided as my prayer is, I sit, listening for the still, small voice to help me formulate a plan.

Rejoice that the money is not yours, the voice says to my heart.

WHAT?!

The money is not hers either, the voice continues.

The money is mine--always has been and always will be, says the Lord.

And in that moment, I find the strength within me to do the most shocking thing I could do: forgive. I let go of it. All of it. I would begin to trust that in time the estate would be settled fairly and the inheritance would be issued in accordance with the legally binding documents. In time we would receive our share--far more than we were even expecting.

Numerous attempts at communication with my sister-in-law are made: letters, emails, phone calls. All fail.

Five years go by. A brief attempt to let bygones be bygones emerges. It too fails.

One day I come to terms with the fact that perhaps what my sister-in-law said to me years earlier is true: I am not her family. So I stop trying. Altogether. I then reason if I do not exist in her life, then neither do my children, though she would try to remain in contact with them as she could. She still had her brother, though they rarely communicated, since he did not want to act independently from his wife.

Estrangement is not an easy road to walk. Forgiveness is possible with divine intervention. An expression of regret and an apology for the hurt caused is a major step in the right direction.

And yet . . . .

I stand carefully on this precipice, preferring to remain quietly on the solid ground of my truest self and not risk free-falling off another emotional cliff. I am not entirely sure what to do.

It has been ten years.

by the fourth day

It takes time to enter into rest. One does not merely cease from activity, climb into a bed, and awaken refreshed the next morning with a brand new outlook on life. Stepping out of the ebb and flow of one's daily existence and into a different stream takes time--the rhythm of habits and patterns already set to adapt to whatever is expected of us. For one to choose a different response to life's challenges is a sign that new thoughts and ideas are beginning to emerge, or at the very least--one is on vacation.

I had read somewhere that it takes three nights to fully embrace the change of being in another place. Though weekend trips may lure one into thinking it is just the thing to bring a needed reprieve from the busyness of life, the experience is over before it ever truly begins.

This is why night number one of our camping trip to the Outer Banks was too soon for me to simply roll over and go back to sleep when I heard strange sounds in the night.

There is an unwritten code among campers which goes like this: we all respect each other's stuff. We put up tents that cannot possibly protect us from each other and sometimes not even the elements. We often do not lock the doors of our vehicles while we live in our temporary dwellings. It is only appropriate to take something when it becomes obvious after a day or two that no one is coming back for that striped beach towel hanging near the bathroom, the brand-new hatchet left behind on the picnic table, or the abandoned tent stakes half buried in the sand.

The unusual sounds were coming from the direction of our screen house tent that covers the picnic table, housing the three-day coolers which keep ice from melting almost that long; utility containers--one for dishes, and the other for everything from clothespins used for hanging our wet swimsuits on the line along the side of the tent; flashlights, trash bags, matches, dish soap, DEET to dab on sparingly to keep the mosquitoes from biting, and a lot of other things necessary for tent life.

After a long day of travel, we had set up camp in the heat of the day, eager to get to the water's edge to cool off. A day is defined from sunrise to sunset, especially without modern conveniences, like electricity. After dinner and a walk around the campground, we were ready to call it a night. We had not yet entered into rest.

Not having a clock nearby, or even a watch, I had no idea what time it was when I heard the zipper on our tent unzip and strained to see the hazy figure of my husband shining a flashlight in the direction of the screen house. I had not been dreaming. He too had heard the thud and scratching noises. Not seeing anything out of the ordinary, he returned to the tent to go to sleep.

Next came a scraping sound like something was being dragged across the road.

By this time I was wide awake and in need of answers. Exiting the tent I hoped I would not come face to face with another person since who knows what sort of danger that may entail. And, I was suddenly aware I had neglected to put on my shorts. On the other hand, I was not eager to come into contact with a wild animal either because, well, it is a wild animal.

I shine my flashlight on a furry creature about the size of a cat as the light catches little beady eyes glinting back at me just before it runs into the woods across from our site. And though I have not seen one in the 20 years we have camped at Frisco, the raccoon is first on my list of most likely thieves.

On day two it becomes all too clear that the large, red Tupperware bowl containing at least two dozen of my homemade chocolate chip cookies is nowhere to be found, apparently not making it into the vehicle with the rest of the food that had been put away at the end of our first evening.

Because it was only the second day of the vacation, I had not yet entered into rest. So instead of taking a deep breath and moving on with my life, I obsessed as to where my bowl was. My red bowl, perfect for the storage of more cookies I would eventually make. My bowl. Mine.

Walking into the dense woods with branches scratching me, I could see my bowl still taped shut on a ledge at the bottom of the hill. What were the chances. Going down to retrieve it I noticed the bottom scraped as it had undoubtedly been dragged across the pavement. Two bites were taken out of the lip of the bowl and a multitude of scratches told the story of how two tiny varmint hands reached in and out of it, devouring every crumb.

On night number two, a thunderstorm proved that our tent could leak if the rain came in horizontally, which it did. Waking to wet feet wrapped in wet sheets and wet hair on wet pillows could have ended a camping trip for some, but we were thankful for the cooler weather. Our bedding would dry in the sunshine later in the day as we practiced the arts of backgammon, and bartending.

Another day would pass before we would see a raccoon in broad daylight looking in our direction, near the woods where I had found my bowl. Encountering the raccoon and weathering the storm had not diminished our vacation; just the opposite. We were led further from the life we knew into the adventures of camping. Walking to get water, washing everything by hand, putting thought into the most routine aspects of living; we were adapting.

By the third afternoon on the beach, our sons and one of their friends (more like another son than a friend) joined our camp, replacing quietness with laughter which could be heard quite a ways down the road. A meal for two transformed into a cookout for six. More cooking, more cleaning, more celebrating.

Crossing the threshold into vacation mode on the fourth morning would serve me well as I decided to get a head-start on breakfast by frying up the bacon, while some of the men went for a run. Though I had used the old Coleman camp stove for years, I did not realize this new stove would get so hot that flames would shoot out, burning some of the bacon while leaving some of it uncooked. And melting a hole through the screen house tent. One of my sons pointed out that it would not have taken much to set the entire tent on fire and I should be glad that I had only created a hole, even though it was growing increasingly larger as the heat expanded it from a couple of inches to almost a foot in diameter. I should be glad--I should be horrified! I was not. I was on vacation.

Taping it back together with the duct tape that is known to fix just about anything, I waited for my husband to ask the obvious question when he returned from the run. Instead he just looked me in the eye--the look that comes from being married to someone for a long time. I returned his gaze with steady assurance, not saying a word. If he was not going to ask, I was not going to tell. I would let him think our son did this. For awhile.

We had fully entered into rest by this point, sitting in the warm sand, as the frequency of the waves measured time. Reading our books under the beach umbrella, we tried not to get sunburned. We would take naps. We would watch pelicans dive for food as clouds drifted by. We would eat fresh fish for dinner and watch the sunset.

On day five we would send our boys home after breakfast at our favorite bakery, then hike up and down the lighthouse, ending the day with a long walk on the beach to the pier that is still somehow standing in its progressive state of disintegration, years after the storm that closed it.

By this point the ratio of my sunburned skin to unburned skin seemed higher and dehydration frightfully near. I fought to regain my balance, but had to admit that I was beat as I lay shivering in our tent trying to come up with a solution to feel better. We had adjusted to sleeping on cots and had become vigilant with food storage and clean-up. We fancied going on with our lives like this for a little while longer, but after taking a good look at the raised red patches on my skin that were starting to burn and itch, I knew another day on the beach could do me in. It was time to go home.

Walking into the shower house after dismantling our campsite on the sixth day, I tried to imprint the memory of this place ever more permanently upon my mind. I had intended to pray each morning, like I do in my daily life, but by the morning of the fourth day everything became a prayer--even the raccoon, the rainstorm, camp stoves that melt tents, and sunburn. The sand burrs we would step on along with the abundance of cacti in the hot sand are constant reminders that it is not easy for us to live outside in these conditions. We have to respect nature for its beauty as well as its danger; the waves that refresh us can just as easily drag us out to sea by an undertow we cannot withstand. We are not meant to live in paradise. Yet.

Opening up the door to the shower I am startled by a dark green tree frog jumping out. As I am about to turn on the water, upgraded to a shower head from the rope we used to pull, my gaze is drawn to a bright green tree frog carefully crawling out of the spray of the water, and I am overwhelmed with a sense of joy. I share my shower with this tiny creature as the ocean breeze blows over the top and under the bottom of the door. The shower, recently renovated with tile, and still big enough for those who consider the adage, "Conserve water.  Shower with your steady," washes away the salt and the sand, restoring me.

On a ferry to the mainland after taking one to Ocracoke, I am targeted by a woman wearing orange-framed glasses and badly smudged bright red lipstick, as though she were in the throes of passionate kissing just before boarding, which I doubt. No longer aware of what day it is or what I even look like, I turn away from her from time to time, as she continues to chat on, causing me to wonder if the look in her eyes is the intensity of genius, madness, or some other special need. The lives of the characters in the novel I have been reading seem more real than she is. I think about reengaging in the life that awaits me at the end of the boat ride, and allow my mind to wander away instead.

We come to the water to enter into rest, becoming like rocks having their rough edges smoothed off over time, slowly being shaped into who we are intended to be.

appointed time

Walking slowly through the backyard, the grass seems to be a brighter hue as the warm earth, softened by rain, gives way ever so slightly to my sandaled feet. I carry the sunflowers, given to me by a woman who sells them, to the compost pile as their yellow petals are now shriveled, threatening to come undone all over the living room floor. It is in this nondescript act that I suddenly feel as though God is near.

I don't wake you up at 3 a.m. anymore.

That is the message I hear in my heart. Even though there was a long stretch of time in which I would awaken at 3 a.m. to avail myself to this divinely appointed meeting time, I just now realize that this is no longer happening.

I cannot remember the last time I woke up at 3 a.m.

Contemplating this, I wonder if God is giving up on me. Maybe after all of those attempts to get my attention and put faces and names in my mind so I would pray for them, I did not do as much as I could have. But prayer is relaxing. It helps one to go to sleep. When one is awakened to pray, it cannot last long before one tired woman is transported back to dreamland.

Another thought formulates, before I take myself too far afield.

What if God does not need to interrupt my sleep by inviting me to meet with him at 3 a.m. because I am more able now to meet with him at other times during my waking hours?

As I awaken and sit in front of the window with my coffee, listening to the sweet Irish voices on my online devotional speak to me of Scriptures and offer invitations to talk to Jesus as if he were sitting right beside me, my heart opens. I read, pray, and allow whatever I find in the way of inspirational words and art to represent my day in my posts. I try to listen for what my spirit needs to hear in order to learn more about love.

When I run my dog on a path through woods at the park, I think about the canopy of leaves overhead catching my prayers that I am offering as they hang high above like shiny little prayer flags, waving joyfully in the sun. Around me the birds sing out their prayers, harmonizing with one another; the locusts chirp theirs in unison.

The parts of my life requiring counsel and prayer have been resolving slowly, like brown sugar melting into butter before it cooks down to become frosting for brownies. My life is reintegrating, gathering together the broken fragments and fitting itself back together in a whole and healthy way. Though the scale betrays me, I feel lighter in spirit. Lighter than I have in quite awhile.

What if this is what I was referring to in a recent blog in which I vowed to hold my current pain with compassion until it was ready to go? What if on this warm summer day when I have had nothing on my calendar except to enjoy a leisurely afternoon of reading, now writing, and resting, that whatever has been weighing me down has chosen this day to fly away?

Higher and higher, it starts out as heavy flapping wings of some sort of flying creature straining to gain altitude, transforming mysteriously into thinner and lighter butterfly wings silently flitting from tree to tree until with a brief flourish of color, it disappears altogether.

I stand in awesome wonder.

to seek

When the challenges of a previous year are still plaguing one six months into the following year, drastic measures must be taken!

Sensitivity is absolutely necessary for writing and creativity; not so much for dealing with change. So for me to walk into a room filled with approximately 16 people I did not know, at a church in which I have never attended in a neighboring town, for a book study led by someone I used to go to church with, and then force myself to interact as though this behavior was nothing out of the ordinary for me, was in essence, an act of total desperation.

But God met me there. And the group graciously gave me a place among them to dwell while I continued to work things out. Five weeks into the study I wrote this prayer:


Prayer of Lament

By Mary Ellen Shores

I seek to do your will, O Lord; how can this be your will?

With open hands, I reach for you; to be in your presence is my delight. 

When it is too dark for my eyes to see, your Spirit illuminates my path.

Sovereign will, ultimate will, that which makes everything come to pass.

It was not beyond your control to intervene. Why did you remain silent?

You could have written a different script, giving each one another role to play.

Perceptive will, revealed will, written on the hearts of your children.

You gave us your directions, along with the freedom not to follow them.

Wickedness cannot be justified, even within your sovereign will, can it?

Perfect will, too great for my imperfection, is supposed to be enough.

Endless speculation about the way things may have been wearies the soul.

You are Almighty. I am not. What are my closed fists holding onto?

Forgiving requires an act of my will; words spoken in private to clear the slate.

Reconciliation catches in my throat, rendering me incapable of logic or truth.

How can I make peace with people like them, like me, like all of us? 

If you will open my hands and hold them up; I will yet praise you.

Let peace flow into my overwrought mind; heal my broken heart. Again.

Fill my spirit to overflowing so that I may arise and serve you with joy.

Undeterred by my new unrecognizable self, I would choose to travel to yet another town to sit in one of a half dozen rocking chairs in a room lined with bookshelves around a coffee table, where a small stack of cards with questions on them would define the day for the five of us--me, still trying to get my act together, and four women whom I had never met.

How has doubt been present in your spiritual life? was the question written on one of the cards.

Scripture passages chosen focused on the account of Thomas who doubted that Jesus had truly risen from the dead. He does not say he CANNOT believe until he has proof, he says he WILL NOT believe. I consider how many times I may have put God to the test.

Reading the 20th chapter of John I settle in for one of my favorite stories in the Bible: Mary Magdalene going to the tomb and getting to be the first to see Jesus after the resurrection. I know the story well. And like a movie scene watched over and over for the sheer enjoyment of a beautiful unfolding drama, I always pause at the part in which Jesus speaks her name in a way that she knows it is him--the one who set her free from oppression, the one who respected her as a woman, the one who chose to be her friend. She would have seemed so far from the kind of person who could glorify God with her life. Perhaps that is why she is my favorite.

"Woman, why are you weeping?" is the question asked of Mary, first by the angels who see her looking into the empty tomb and then by Jesus before he reveals to her his identity.

Woman, why are you weeping? became my question, not written on a card but on my heart.

I walk the labyrinth in a light rain left alone with my thoughts as I make the journey through the maze demarcated by its rocky walls. The pine straw scattered on the walkway over the soft earth cushion each step as the heavy drops of rain make polka dot patterns on the rocks.

Walking through a garden abundant with plant life, filled also with artwork to enhance the visual pleasure, I pause briefly before heading down toward the lake. Though it had been hot, the cloud cover provides relief as a cool breeze blows through the trees. Past the colorful prayer flags and up toward the vegetable garden, a porch swing becomes a place of refuge for me. Raindrops splashing rhythmically on the water create gentle ripples comforting me as the swing, hung between two large trees, rock me back and forth until I feel safe. Held.

Lunch consists of raspberries, blueberries, tomatoes, snap peas, hummus, avocados, my homemade apple pie and coffee. Fresh food prepared lovingly nourish my body; conversation revives my soul.

Five women who have lived long enough to experience many variations of faith and doubt--still able to laugh; intellectual women who are challenged to find ways to extend love beyond denominational boundaries out into a world with enormous needs, glorifying God in the process. Leaders--all.

Wanting to create art as I continued to seek God, I wove wire through buttons, winding the wire into a loop of time. A heart signifies the love that makes everything work together for good. Pink paper is the sky at daybreak, with a wisp of cloud coming down representing the Spirit who gives me inspiration; a band of flowers representing the earth and a piece across the middle anchoring the celestial rotation--the fabric of daily living. "The artificial notion of time" is what I would name it later.

By the end of the day, two of the women had to go, leaving the woman directing the group, one other woman and I to handle the issue of doubt, with care and compassion. I needed to answer for myself why Mary was still weeping.

Mary had a choice. She could remain in her grief as she gazed upon an empty tomb or she could turn to recognize Jesus who encouraged her to go on with life in a new way. She had been healed. She was still loved. There was no longer any reason for her to weep.    

Weeping may endure for a night, but joy comes in the morning. [Psalm 30:5]

I await the dawn.