thank you Christian Wiman

In the midst of struggle, I often turn to books. Talking to friends and family can be somewhat helpful but sometimes I need to enter into the life of another as page after page allows me to tag along for the journey. I like to read the unvarnished truth--the words the author may or may not say out loud to his own friends and family. I am forever in search of truth.

If you have read the blog post previous to this one about my health issues, my need for answers predominates the discussion. What lurks between the lines is my need for someone to walk with me through the valley of the shadow of death, and I was fortunate to find Christian Wiman, author of My Bright Abyss. Wiman has no idea of my existence and we are not friends in any sense of the word. But he has been with me as of late, encouraging me with the starkness of views about his life with cancer, his impending death, and how the Creator of the Universe figures into the equation. As I was hanging onto his every word, feeling inspired, crying along with his revelations of truth, my attention is now shifting away from the contemplation of death--as my death sentence was premature--and I am feeling pangs of guilt, leaving him behind.

It seems odd to me how I can arrange my thought processes to reflect whatever truth I choose to believe. And then, whether conscious of this or not, I go about finding others who are willing to agree with me. It validates me to come across sentences like, "Faith steals upon you like dew: some days you wake and it is there. And like dew, it gets burned off in the rising sun of anxieties, ambition, distractions," written by Wiman, and say to myself--yes, it is ok for faith to waiver like mine just has. It is not my faith in God that has come into question, however, but my faith in thinking I know what God is up to. To me it is not the same. God's existence is absolute and his love for me eternal. That does not mean he is going to grant me my wishes, answer my prayers the way in which I have carefully laid them before him with that intention in mind, or even that good things will happen--what I may consider good anyway. God is God. He can do or not do whatever it is an Almighty being would choose to do. How I deal with it is up to me.

So when Wiman suggests that faith gets "burned off in the rising sun" of whatever life throws in my direction, I know what he is talking about. Faith is not needed when the check is ready to clear the bank. Faith is needed when the check is not forthcoming and the calls from the collection agencies start to show up on the answering machine. Faith is not that all is well. Faith is having a sneaking suspicion that all is definitely not well but in time it will be. The big question is when. Does the bottom have to fall out of everything first? Answer: maybe. Will it mean that God does not care? Answer: no. Does God caring have anything to do with the prayers that need to be answered this week? Sort of. He cares. He provides. He will listen to anything I have to say. But like a small child forming her chubby little hand into a fist to say, "No! I won't!" to a parent who has insight into life the toddler lacks, so goes my relationship with God. It is not for me to know but to trust. It is not easy.

When I thought my own demise was near, I started to take on a different point of view. The future looks different when there may not be one. Each day takes on greater significance. A bite of food is savored when the thought of not being able to taste it is introduced. The need to write and use one's gifts move to the forefront as the thought of being silenced once and for all comes into play.

But death will meet us someday. It is part of the script we all live out. Like William Shakespeare said, "All the world's a stage and all the men and women merely players: they have their exits and their entrances . . . ."  Of this one thing we can be certain. Knowing how and when is the secret. Someone dying of cancer can pretty well figure it out. And though he can be seen as brave, I have no doubt there are days when Wiman resists that description and is even mocked by it. Could he trade in the bravery and get his life back? he may wonder. What is so great about being brave anyway? And who gets to decide if someone is brave or whether hidden tears and an underlying fear come to define the person when no one is around.

We want people to be our role models and show us how to believe and the appropriate ways to handle various situations. Wiman's dying is palatable through his book. He makes it seem doable. But he also includes in the writing that years have gone by since a paragraph was penned, inviting one into the depth of pain and frustration a writer must feel as he is searching for words to explain his condition while it is deteriorating rapidly. The platitudes fall away, Christian or otherwise. The trite phrases about God, his healing, his mercy, all take on sinister overtones to the person planning his own funeral. Life exists until death takes it. It is not for the one looking in from the outside to even know what it is like and certainly not to make any kind of judgment. It is a solo journey and yet God accompanies the one who can still reach out. But as I discovered in my brief adventure toward this end, it is God who lifts my hand to hold his. I cannot not even do that much myself.

So thank you Christian Wiman. For sharing your heart poetically and honestly in a beautifully written book that has inspired me. For not hiding behind words but allowing them to draw out your truth, as raw and unforgiving as that is. For living out the role you never meant to be cast in. And for the perseverance it has taken to assign words to the unspeakable; a quiet commentary on that which most would rather not consider.

"My God my bright abyss
into which all my longing will not go
once more I come to the edge of all I know
and believing nothing believe in this."

--Christian Wiman, 2013, My Bright Abyss, Meditation of a Modern Believer

to be normal again

"So, you have tested positive for lupus," she said matter-of-factly--this woman about my age looking intently at her laptop, as we sat together as strangers in a tiny room with a couple of chairs and an examination table.

"But I was told by my general practitioner that I had Sjogren's Syndrome," was my protest, which was not exactly true because I had not heard the news from my doctor but from his assistant who called and rather nonchalantly mentioned I now had an incurable, chronic disease. This new doctor, a rheumatologist to which I had been referred, must have sensed my rising panic, especially since she was telling me I now had two incurable, chronic diseases, and instead of entertaining any of the questions that I had almost a month to formulate, said we would talk after further lab tests, x-rays, urine specimens and whatever else were thoroughly evaluated. In other words, I would be waiting another three weeks.

How I arrived at this place in life is still somewhat of a mystery. About a year ago I started to feel worn out and attributed it to the schedule I was on: following my boys in all of their sporting and musical events; working a part-time job while keeping an art business going; and volunteering to be on three boards with regular meetings and expectations. Eating right, sleeping enough hours and exercising regularly sometimes are not at the forefront of one's life when so many immediate needs present themselves. I did what I could to keep up.

Sometime last October I developed a toothache like none other and on Halloween I was treated to my first root canal--a trick, not a treat. Still not feeling my best I figured my hypothyroidism was acting up--a chronic condition I have been dealing with for the past ten years. There also loomed before me the dreaded menopause with all of the changes that accompany it. So many reasons to not feel great and yet no clear answers.

Six months after the first root canal it was apparent that my tooth had become infected so root canal number two was scheduled. A couple of weeks later came root canal number three, technically more of a repair--all on the same tooth, the one that meets the other tooth that allows my open bite mouth to chew food. After over fifty years of use, maybe the orthodontist I saw when I was 16 was right when he predicted I would be gumming my food by the time I was 40. The idea of braces at the time would have affected my flute playing which caused me great angst and my parents were not eager to spend the money, especially when fixing an open bite is not guaranteed. So I continued to go on not being able to chew correctly and not worrying about it.

Trying to make it through my son's senior year began to feel like a death march and by the time our college-aged son had returned home to take over the front room and half the dining room table, I was ready to give in to the clutter and seek to find rest instead of fighting a losing battle to keep the house in any kind of orderly fashion. Hoping to restart a regular exercise regimen to try to regain my strength was a short-lived hope as my husband found a summer job and my son decided to take summer classes, leaving me with no transportation to the gym. I ran until it was too hot outside and tried to get to the pool whenever I could, but the fatigue and joint pain just got worse.

By this point my endocrinologist intervened, taking me off the natural hormone I need to regulate my metabolism and prescribed a synthetic one. I was in too much of a fog by that point to understand what it was he was doing--until the bottom nearly fell out of my life. I no longer could sleep and would cry uncontrollably with little or no provocation. I gained 10 pounds in one month. Depression, a symptom of inadequately treated hypothyroidism, spiraled me to a level I had not before reached. I was becoming someone I was not meant to be, I explained, as I told my doctor I would not be taking any more synthetic hormones. Ever. But the numbers are normal, he explained. I, however, was not.

I began to wonder if this pain I was in was real or imagined. I do not want to be sick. I want to go running. I want to lose weight. I want to have an overall sense of well-being. I am not depressed. Though I do not tend to have the most cheery of dispositions, I am a writer so that is to be expected. This is what I kept telling myself. Whenever I tried to pray, I cried. I had no words that could adequately explain what it was I was hoping for. Whatever it was, I certainly did not think it would be chronic diseases that would perhaps eventually take away my ability to use the very gifts God has given me. I felt like life as I knew it was ending ever so gradually.

Last Tuesday I went back to receive the final diagnosis from the rheumatologist. I was bracing myself for anything from lupus to lymphoma. What is the worst that can happen? I asked myself. Well, I could die. No, I decided, that would not be the worst. The worst would be living with a chronic, debilitating disease that would shut down the reasons for joy in this life. Having people tell me I am brave after I would learn to withhold my emotions so they would not see me feeling desperate, was not something I was looking forward to. Explaining to my friends and loved ones that the woman they once knew no longer exists was something else that burdened me as I am usually the one others turn to for bearing their burdens. It is what it is. I sat waiting with my throbbing head, having scheduled another root canal.

"You do not have lupus and the only test that showed any abnormality was for Sjogren's and it was so slight, I am not diagnosing you with that either," she said. What?! Though I was excited for this good news, I also reminded myself that this is specifically why I am not fond of the medical community. For almost two months I have been on death row, in my mind. I have walked myself through all sorts of scenarios, none of them particularly heroic or brave. I have cried out to God and have had times of silence wondering what I would do if. Nevertheless, I was not abandoned and at times I felt the Spirit of God embracing me in ways more powerfully than I have ever experienced. Contemplating an eternity in heaven is not all that scary. It is the process it takes to get there that gives one pause.

Instead of a fourth root canal, the dentist performed an apicoectomy in which the infected roots are cut from the tooth and the tooth magically continues to stay in my head, or at least that is the plan for now. My mouth hurts and my lip is swollen. I took the day off to gather my thoughts, prepare for a meeting and hopefully do some sewing as the holiday season will soon be upon us. My dentist said that a chronic fatigue condition sometimes develops when a tooth remains infected over a period of time. My health may yet prevail. Or at least maybe I can find a way to make peace with a new kind of normal.

ready or not

Slowly, working my way through the expected recitation of numbers, 98 . . . 99 . . . 100, I would then yell out, "Ready or not, here I come" and begin to look for all those who had found a place to hide.

The best place for hide and seek was Grandma's barn since by the time my sisters, cousins and I were old enough to be allowed the freedom to explore outside of the house, there were no more horses or any other animals making their home there. A chute where hay could be dropped into a stall became a passageway we would learn to maneuver as well as the ladder that led to the hay loft. A big, old barn can provide hours of fun for those able to create the right game. There was no better place to hide or to seek.

We naturally divided up into teams and even though I can admit to the unfairness of this now, my cousin, Michael, and I were the oldest so we would choose to work together to outsmart the younger ones and win every time. We were in charge. We created a version of the game and made up the rules to suit ourselves. The younger children would follow us and try to keep up even though we were always dodging them.

It seemed that each time we had figured out a new twist to the game that would make it even more challenging, and we would have barely worked out the finer points of this new, improved version, the unmistakable sound of my mother's voice, calling us back into the old farmhouse of her youth, would echo through our made-up world and we would have to reveal our hiding places and go home.

There was always the hope that we would come back and it would be better the next time. I remember waiting for that to happen. But then came the day of the auction when everything of value was sold. Eventually the house my mother grew up in became someone else's home. My last memory was finally getting to go into the attic and playing with what would have been considered antique toys even then--the kind that were made out of metal and wood and required imagination, not batteries.

We would take a drive out on the dirt roads by the old house whenever my mother felt like reminiscing, but someone either was not careful in the kitchen or the house was struck by lightning. In any case, it burned to the ground. Michael, the cousin I most looked forward to seeing at my mother's family gatherings, died too young.

To make the discovery of whatever it is that makes my heart sing is a glorious feeling. At last, I have found something I can put all my energy into, I tell myself. From this point on, I have a new goal, a new outlook on life, a new calling. I see life in a whole new way. It transcends words shining through my smile and my near-sighted eyes. Feeling more powerful I take up running again. I make an effort to reveal my heart to prospective friends. I tell myself it is going to be different this time. From now on.

It is then my natural inclination to try to hold onto this feeling, this hope, this dream as tightly as I can for fear that it will get away from me like a balloon filled with helium whose tiny string playfully slips through my fingers. I make a mad scramble to hang on with everything I have got. And then it is gone.

I think about the once-in-a-lifetime occasions that I did not figure out how to do until they were over. The less significant events like having an epiphany on the way to turning in a research paper, suddenly knowing that I had completely missed the point of the assignment, but now possessed the insight I would not have an opportunity to expound upon pales in comparison to details missed on the morning of my wedding, or what I should have done differently in the process of giving birth. I knew how to get better grades in school after I graduated with a grade point average that did not reflect my ability. Likewise I knew how to put on a wedding by the time ours was over and had finally learned the most efficient way of pushing out a baby by the time we were done adding children to our family.

It is only rarely in life that I have had the presence of mind to understand what is happening while it is going on. And sometimes right in the midst of life going well, I have had the sense that because I am doing what I love it is only logical that this could go on forever. And should. But it doesn't. Something happens. People change their minds. Unexpected scenarios rear their ugly head. The ladder that appeared so sturdy has broken rungs.

And I, like my nine-year-old self, am left standing in an old empty barn as the sun is setting and the wind turns cold. Not wanting to leave the game that had gone on seamlessly for hours, I walk slowly into the house to get ready to go back to the reality of a working farm, where I spend a great deal of time in the house to avoid getting sunburned or breaking out in a rash from the fertilizer.

There I find a different hiding spot and resume my adventures in my books.

taking the time

A friend stopped by to see me while I was selling my wares at our local farmers' market on Saturday. Though I get a lot of sewing done while I sit behind my table, when I am not reading, of course, I am open to conversation whenever it comes my way--with vendors at nearby tables, curious passersby, and especially friends.

This particular friend wanted me to know of her intentionality to see me, as she shared a sad story of how she kept putting off seeing another friend until one day she was told of that friend's death. We are only middle-aged. Our friends are not supposed to be dying yet, but sometimes they do. This friend of hers had run a store and every time my friend would pass it, she would make that mental note: I'll stop next time. When there is no next time, it makes one realize that if there is a second chance, take it.

Friendship does not require as much as some may think. A few well-chosen words, a smile, a warm embrace, are enough to move a stranger toward the friendship category. There are, of course, acquaintances: those to whom we express the pleasantries of the day by remarking how beautiful the weather is, but unless an effort is made to break through into a more intimate exchange of information, a smile and a nod may be as far as it goes.

Taking the time for someone is to show that person respect. It is to say--I care about you, tell me what is going on. It does not require a great deal of time or money. The visits can be short and not terribly emotional or even that deep. When someone wants to take the time for another it can be as simple as having a cup of coffee together, sitting in chairs talking, taking a walk, even emailing or texting can create a little closeness in the midst of the busyness of life. I value my time, what precious little of it there is. Therefore, when I give it up for someone I care about, I show that person that he or she matters to me.

Taking the time to reconnect with someone is easier said than done. We all have schedules, deadlines and more work than we ever seem to have time to accomplish. Though we may desire to get together with friends, this idea takes its place in a long line of necessary ways to spend a day. A friend asked me recently if I ever had a conversation on the phone anymore. I didn't have the heart to tell her that I have never enjoyed speaking on the phone so I do not miss it, but no, like my busy friend, we are fortunate if we can answer an email or a text. We do not have the luxury of talking on the phone, unless we are already doing something else.

I have walked into a nursing home a couple of times recently to visit the relative of a friend. I was told she would not know me, but she never really knew me to begin with so it does not make a difference. She answers questions I do not ask and makes statements that do not make sense to me but does so with a smile and a sweetness of demeanor. She was once a brilliant, beautiful woman, I am quite certain, and though it is terrible watching someone deteriorate, this is the way she will live out her days until she goes on to glory, and there is nothing anyone can do about that. Giving her a few minutes of time here and there is all that is left to do.

Lord of the Rings readers will remember Gandalf's comforting words to Frodo, who was expressing regret over what had happened. "All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given us."  We make the best decisions we can at the time, never knowing what the future will hold. Taking the time to do a kind gesture for someone is its own reward. There are no promises, no regrets--only choices.

As I went down my mental checklist the other day to try to remember everything I needed to do, I suddenly became aware of my mother's upcoming surgery and realized I had not called her, the one phone call I still make somewhat regularly. By the time I got around to it she and my dad were in the car on the way to the hospital. I was relieved that I had not missed the opportunity to spend a few moments talking with her about her health issues and reasons for medical intervention. She would talk until they reached the rest area, reminding me that her recovery may be long and she will not be able to talk for awhile. By the time we said good-bye I was already placing her in the doctor's care and into God's hands.

It is that way with me every time someone leaves this house. It is my practice to walk to the back steps and wave good-bye. In case anything keeps them from returning home, I need to know that there was a little bit of closure. I am even like that at work. I start my day with greetings and end with brief farewells. It is important for me to take the time to manage my life in this way. It is more intentional even though we are not in control of the outcome.

The friend who came to the market to see me bought a little pillow I had made with the letters l-o-v-e sewn on it from a scrap of red taffeta. I remember thinking that fabric would have made a great retro prom dress. The other fabric used for the pillow was found on a bolt at the Salvation Army and has sparkling birds among its designs. It looks like it would upholster something--maybe a small chair. My friend said it would match her bedroom. I think it matched what was going on in her heart.

in my Birkenstocks

It is impossible to know what is going on in the mind and the heart of another. Even if someone chooses to share this information with me, there are too many variables to ever get it exactly right.

So we make assumptions about each other. He is yawning; he must be tired or bored. She curled her hair; maybe she needs attention. He is dressed nicer than usual; perhaps he is trying to make a good impression. Her eyes are red; she is either suffering from allergies or has been crying.

We can appear as though life is great. Our clothes are clean and we have paid attention to coordinating them in appropriate ways. Basic hygiene goes a long way in allaying the fears of the observant. Looks good + smells good = must be ok.

Recently I have learned that a prayer request means praying for the needs of another and not yourself. This is easy. It also deflects attention if your personal prayer request would not be accepted or understood. It isn't that anyone wants to judge. It is just that there is often not enough time to thoroughly explain. Nothing feels worse than to have something major diminished by a quick, dismissive prayer, equating it to some triviality in life. If I have trivial prayer needs, I must be thought of as a pretty shallow person, I tell myself, as I realize it is too late to take back my prayer request. Never mind, I want to say, don't trouble yourself with it. God has got this one.

It takes discernment to know who is able to handle what is really going on in my life. Some just do not have the capacity for such truths. I do not like to share my "stuff" if it will turn into the only thing brought up each time I make contact with the person--kind of like it was when I was pregnant. I started off wanting to share the news with the world and could not wait until I grew into my new maternity clothes. My baby bump filled me with unimaginable joy, but as time went by I would be asked the same questions, over and over . . . for months. When are you due? How is your pregnancy going? Are you excited about the baby? And on and on it would go. I would long for someone to remember who I was apart from the upcoming blessed event. I was relieved when my doctor referred to the baby as a parasite since I had secretly been feeling like the host it was feeding on and wondering if that would make me an unfit mother. Apparently all that science fiction I had exposed myself to had few deleterious effects on the actual child rearing, or at least that is what I would like to believe.

Once the baby was born, the conversation could revolve around the child. Sometimes it still does. How are your kids? Your husband? Your dog? And then the conversation is over and I wonder what happened to inquiring about me. I make a mental note not to bring that issue up as a prayer request.

Of course I often do not completely share what it is that is going on with me. In fact it would be more accurate to say that I never do. This is not to indicate that I have no friends because I do--some really good ones. I have friends I have known for years and some I have known for only a short time. Some are people of faith; some may never believe as I do. Aside from all of that, there exists a gap in understanding, as it exists with everyone. We each have a unique perspective, an individual bent, and our own cumulative experiences that form us into who we are.

Because I am a writer, I have this whole inner life filled with possible scenarios, scripted with characters playing varying roles. Like imaginary friends pouring their hearts out to me, I have non-stop thought processes going on in my head. Need time alone? Even when I am alone, I am not alone. I know the voices of the actors in my play are all mine so I do not need to worry about passing a psychiatric evaluation, though I will not be taking one any time soon just in case.

There also exists the spiritual component which is a voice different from my own. It is the impetus to put certain words together to form poetry. I obey, usually, knowing that at some point the words will reduce me to tears thus verifying their supernatural origin. This is what I love about writing AND about having a relationship with the Almighty. I also love the fact that if I do not feel like saying anything, my deepest needs are already heard and answers are forthcoming. Well, sometimes not exactly the answers I am looking for, but at least an acknowledgement that I have been listened to.

Maybe this is why I grow impatient with the whole sharing-my-needs-with-others idea. It requires a great deal of effort often resulting in misunderstandings. It is my hope to present myself the way I want to be and honestly ask for prayer regarding those needs that are beyond my reach of fixing. I long to be understood by others in the same way that God understands me and it is just not possible. Good attempts are made when I will allow for them. Love is given and received. There is only one reason why I cannot be fully known by another.

It is because the only one who walks in my Birkenstocks is me.

I have decided . . .

I went to church today with a tray full of cookies and a heart full of hope. The cookies, my signature recipe of molasses cookies made into sandwich cookies with the butter cream frosting in the middle, are the now expected item I bring to covered dish events, in this case the luncheon after the church service. The open, expectant heart is how I live on my good days.

As a member of the choir I needed to take my tray to the fellowship hall as quickly as I could walk downstairs so I could get to the music room, while having a delightful conversation with a woman I often sit by in choir about the delicious meat we were served at the pig pickin' the night before. Finding my seat in the choir loft I began to adhere my page stickers onto the pages of songs selected for service designated in the bulletin. We would then have a short rehearsal and stop in time for me to make a brief visit to the ladies room and even get a quick drink of juice.

Walking back into the sanctuary as the pews began to fill I noticed a woman lighting a candle, pausing momentarily to remember someone. Though I wanted to do the same without any specific intention in mind, I decided not to intrude on her prayer so I went on to my place.

Sitting in the choir I am surrounded by a musical family. We all sing our parts and though some of us do not always hit the right notes, our hearts are in the right place. We sing in unison; we sing in harmonies. We sing together to lead the rest of the congregation into the worship of God.

At some point in the service as the guest pastor was illustrating the gospel of Mark and telling us to listen to Jesus, I felt this overwhelming presence near me, around me, over me, within me. It was not of my own doing as I try not to draw attention to myself, especially when I am sitting in front of the entire church. I was grateful that the communion table had been lifted up to the higher step to serve as a wall of partition just in case I were to become emotional. It was more than a feeling, however, or even an emotional moment. It was exactly where God knew I would be, waiting for inspiration, hoping for a word from him. It was time for our divine appointment.

And just like that, this rush of words came at me saying, "Why is it so hard for you to trust me?"

After all of these years, I thought this was the sort of thing he was going to finally explain to me and not the other way around!

My mind went into overdrive as I contemplated to what the Creator of the Universe could possibly be referring? But I knew. Before him were laid bare: my thoughts, my concerns, my worries, my issues. Countless sleepless nights have been the norm as of late. Unclear focus has kept me from finding healing through the expression of my thoughts in words.Trapped in a purgatory of unfinished sentences, incomplete ideas and random emotional outbursts, I had not been fully aware of how much could be attributed to physical phenomena, what part has been an emotional burden for me to bear and where the Spirit of God fits in. Waiting, I had hoped the numbness that was eventually creeping in would not come to redefine my spiritual path.  

I have seen the provision of the Lord so many times in so many miraculous ways I have no right to question. But I do. My oldest son is in his final year of college and will graduate debt-free because he was accepted into a program that has provided for his financial need. My middle son is rejoicing as he is being accepted as a musician and a runner at the beginning of his college education, also receiving a generous amount of aid to pay his bills. And my youngest son, who has been on my heart a lot lately, went forward to light his own candle today while my husband sat in the pew, tired yet happy in his new job--a position offered to him on the very day that his current position was suddenly in transition.

With my family in good shape, my mind wandered to the condition of my church family. Can I trust God with them? The guest pastor said, "The way you love your neighbor is the way you love God. The way you love God is the way you love your neighbor." Are we as a congregation loving each other well? How can anyone say he loves God whom he does not see when he does not love his brother who is standing right beside him? I've read this in the Bible long enough to know God is not calling us to do something impossible. He is asking us to love him so he can teach us how to love each other. We can love because of the love he puts in our hearts. We can only come up with so much on our own. The truest, purest love originates from him. It is for us to wait and to pray that he can find room in our hearts to contain the kind of love this world needs. He loves through us, loving us in the process.

Becoming an elder has enlarged my heart and has made me more capable to love. I am not the same person. And yet there it is--my ability to trust--being called into question . . . again. And for good reason.

I always thought it was hard for me to trust because of the disappointments in life. When people who are supposed to be trustworthy are not, trusting is a hard lesson to hold onto. But sitting there in my choir loft chair surrounded by the people of God, I knew without a doubt that whatever happens next has no bearing on whether or not I am to trust God. Trusting God stands alone, apart from me.

But what about how I want certain things to turn out? Decisions going the way I want them to? People rising to a standard I want them at? What about what I want? Oh.

This is not blind faith. It is a well-informed decision to listen to a Messiah who has my best interests in mind. And regardless of whether I have some really great ideas about how to run things, I AM NOT IN CHARGE. To try to take what God has not given--namely his authority--is to run the risk of being on the outside looking in. It is to strive for peace but never achieve any. It is to be constantly considering the possibilities instead of letting go of the outcome. It takes away the peace because the constant search of the understanding gets in the way.

Breathing deeply and trying to wipe away the tears quickly so no one would see, I finished out the service by singing very appropriately, "We shall go out with joy and be led forth with peace." I felt like I wanted to embrace everyone and love even the most unlovable. I wanted to greet the members of this church family God has given me, holding them close to my heart. I want to trust that God knows what he is doing.

country roads, take me home

On the second day of the fourteen-hour journey northward, we cross into the county where I am from. Exiting off the highway, I search for the familiar. The only constant is change. Not remembering exactly what the landscape used to look like, I knew it had been different from what we passed on the road. Trees are bigger or missing altogether. Houses are in new places; some of the old ones are abandoned. Coming up to the corner I always expect to see the old church, even though I know it was moved to the historic district in town many years ago.

The stretch of land etched indelibly in my mind is what comes into view after rounding the final turn. Fields that have produced different crops over the years roll up against the base of the big hill. What once served as a place for little girls to slide down on their sleds in the winter is covered with trees--the tree I used to sit in, among them.

The barn, milking parlor and silos rest silently in the cool breeze after decades of use. A cooling pad for tanks of cherries is a reminder of the busy days of summer when trucks would bring the newly shaken cherries back from the orchard to soak in cold water before rushing them off to the processing plant. The best cherries I would ever eat were at the end of the drive-way where all I had to do was scoop some into a bowl to make a pie.

Old buildings that once housed families who came to help with the harvest have been torn down. A larger storage building replaced one of them while the other exists only in the step-by-step pictures taken to document the time I painted a flag on the door for a school project. A corn field takes over the place where the garden was once planted, and the rest of the yard is grass with trees that are bigger than I remembered.

The embroidered picture of the farm that I made still hangs on the living room wall; the picture of my sister and I playing a piano duet in the stairway. The door to my room is closed and though I know it has become the laundry room I want to open it to find my twin bed up against one wall with my sister's against the other, our green bedspreads neatly made and floral curtains on the windows; the shelves filled with our treasures. The trunk that contained my letters and journals is the only piece of furniture that went with me out into the world.

Taking the back way up to see my sister is like following an ancient map using landmarks as road signs. Turn at the house where so-and-so used to live and continue on the paved road even though the dirt road provides a more direct route.  Go past the tavern that is further out in the middle of nowhere and keep heading north. Each small town heralds travelers in its own special way as we catch a glimpse of how life is lived there. I keep reminding myself that as beautiful as all of the flowers are, most of these places are thrust into a deep freeze for many months each year and though they may host visitors in the summer, in the winter they become ghost towns for the locals who are used to the hardship of prolonged cold.

Reunions with relatives and friends require the energy to tell life events quickly and convincingly enough so that questions do not persist. To account for decades of life is an onerous task. I can barely comprehend that so much time has passed. It is my story and I can tell it any way I want, and yet words seem inadequate when I look into the eyes of some I have not seen since we were children. Though we can be recognized by our resemblance to our parents, we retain the image we once had in high school--an image long replaced by who we became in college, graduate school and the life that kept moving us on at a brisk clip toward middle age.

The memories others have of us are thrown up against our own. In the midst of all of the sorting, I wonder exactly who I used to be and who I have become. Leaving home was something I always dreamed of doing even though it must have been a shock for those who found out after the fact that I actually got into that car after college and headed out West. Most probably did not know that I even came East to attend graduate school since I ended up in the same place after graduation where my original dream had taken me. Getting married and having our first child far from my home made these events more myth than reality since the local community was unable to participate. Moving to the South, having a couple more kids and buying a house reinforced the truth that I was never coming back to the place where I am from, except to visit. I still grieve this loss at times, but cannot be fooled like an out-of-town tourist thinking this place is warm and filled with sunshine like it was during the days of our vacation, because I know better. It is very cold in the winter and the sun may not come out for weeks at a time. Having moved away, I know of other places that are less cold and dark. There remains, however, a part of me who longs to sit a while longer on that beach with the fine white sand between my toes as the sun sets over the calm blue water.  

Like so many celebrations, the class reunion was over before it began, leaving me feeling like I was a passenger on a bus with the doors opening too soon, forcing me out at the wrong stop. Walking back through the memories, I try to find something secure to hold onto. This time travel is messing with my mind. We light the lanterns to honor the dead trying not to think of who will make it to the next reunion and who may not. We have conversations with those we never spoke to in high school since our social groups did not intersect back then. Band geeks did not associate with football players even though we provided a half-time show at every game. Cheerleaders had no business talking with introverted nerds who expressed themselves more effectively in writing than by public displays of enthusiasm. We were all given a role to play and did not stray much from the script.

None of this matters any longer. Some classmates left town; some stayed and built a life. We all grew older. Some got married; some got divorced, and some never married at all. We have become parents and grandparents. We have found work and ways to contribute to our community. We all made choices. Some choices were made for us. In spite of all of our differences, we once shared a zip code and now share memories of growing up in and near a very small town by a great lake.

As the remaining few of us sat around a bonfire laughing at the running jokes that got funnier as the contents of the bottles lessened, along with our inhibitions, we looked at each other in the shadows remembering youth a while longer. And though we tried to sing along to a variety of different songs, there was only one song we all knew: "Country roads, take me home to the place I belong, Western Michigan, mountain momma, take me home, country roads." Even though we changed the words, I am pretty sure John Denver would not have minded.