emerging

The problem with change is that once transformation occurs, one cannot go back to the previous way of being. This would not seem to be a problem, but strangely--it is.

Perhaps it is wrapped up in the expectation of others for the desired change they would like to see in me.

If someone assigns me a project and then stands patiently by, waiting for me to perform my duties, that person cannot help but want to see me behave in the way he or she thinks I should. But this may not have any bearing on the way I am capable or willing to proceed with the work--the unique contribution that only I can make. 

Not satisfied with my performance, the work is reassigned to someone who will be more effective.  Or, in other words, someone who will perform according to the unspoken standard.

Then I have to decide how to respond to the incompetence which now supposedly identifies me.

But I choose not to.

This only makes it worse. "We knew she couldn't handle it," becomes the prevailing shared thought.

I can.

But I can only do things the way in which I do them. And that is a problem--especially for those who want to change me.

What they do not realize is that in this ongoing effort to transform me into something akin to their image, thus making me acceptable to them, transformation does take place. But it goes terribly awry. I do not change to fit their ideals. I become aware of my own. I stop seeking their approval digging deeper to discover the love that has been in my heart all along. I find joy in the creation and in the Creator. I find peace in the strangest of places. I let go of the ties that bind me to those who insist that I adapt. I break free.

There is a price to be paid for freedom. Not everyone cheers for the one who discovers it. Rejection, not praise, is often the response. To let someone down for not being who that person wanted me to be is tough--for that person. For me it is another small victory in a life that seems to do a fair amount of struggling to emerge from under the heavy burdens others casually toss on top of it.

Like a seedling straining to find sunlight and a few drops of dew, the journey out of the darkness is not an easy one.

But it is mine. 

necessary

Sometimes I feel like I'm hiding . . . in plain sight. Not seen or heard. Or understood. 

When I attempt to translate what someone has told me to someone else for the sake of conveying information, and am told that what I have said is not true, I find myself becoming invisible. Again.

So as a good journalism student, I go back to the source and wonder if what I was told was true. True according to what happened or true according to how she remembers it? Truth as viewed through her particular lens? Is she near-sighted? Is there a smudge on her glasses? Are her eyes even open?

When someone tells me that no, I do not know what I am talking about, I have a tendency to laugh. Out of disbelief. So in essence the person does not believe me so I am laughing because I no longer believe her either. This does not promote communication. This makes me want to solve the mystery of what really may have happened. Gathering clues and taking the testimonies of those who may have been present at the scene, I piece together a convincing narrative. But convincing to whom? 

Who, what, when, where, why and how. And does it matter?

We are told in our teacher meetings that we are to ask three questions before we say anything: Is it true? Is it kind? Is it necessary?

This sort of attitude sends my journalistic sensibilities into screaming fits. The where is truth part affects me on a theological level. Kindness may or may not have anything to do with what the truth is. And, yes, it is necessary. It is always necessary. Because to keep smiling in the midst of deep sorrow is not being at all truthful. What your mother said about if you can't say anything nice, do not say anything at all was wrong. She merely wanted to keep you from fighting with your siblings so you could all eat your dinner and give her a little peace at the end of another trying day.

Perhaps the real questions we should be asking each other are: Who is the source of the information?  What is that person's philosophy? How can we understand each other better?

It takes a great deal of love to tell someone the truth. It is that kind of love for another that breaks through the assumptions, the contrived scenarios, the inevitable judgments, the what ifs, and marches straight into the heart of the matter. It peels back the self-protective veneer we hide behind. It makes us feel wounded, but then binds our wounds so healing can take place.

It is worth pursuing the truth. It may not seem kind at first, but in the end it sets us free.

It is necessary.  

loved

Knowing how Jesus died does not make me love him more; knowing the extent of my sin does not make him love me less.

Reflecting on the heart-wrenching details of crucifixion compete with brief moments of joy I struggle to muster. Try as I may to deny it, I must forge through the pain to fully enter into the resurrection.

The darkness of a Good Friday triggers something deep within me, probably best left alone. Perhaps it is the momentary terror that I will end up back in my own tomb from which I was rescued long ago, when I was led out into the light of new life.

History is written, as the prophets foretold in the scriptures, giving us the image of a mother grieving at the foot of the cross where her son is dying. She does not forget how she did all she could to keep her baby boy alive in that manger, swaddling him with whatever cloths she could find. She recalls the time he ran off to teach in the temple, feeling proud of him once she knew he was safe. Her mother's heart breaks as she considers how she would have taken his place if only she could have.

On the third day, the tomb is empty, and Mary Magdalene hears her name spoken in the gentle way only her friend can say it. The truth is revealed to the friends of Jesus as the Spirit fills them.

Still, they will miss the twinkle in Jesus' eyes as he would laugh at a good joke around the table; the lightness of his steps as he danced at a wedding; the way he was never as concerned with who people were as he was with who they could become--if they would open their hearts to loving others.

Heroes often die at the end of a good story after laying down their lives for their friends. We want them to live on and grow old with us, but they save us, nevertheless.

What remains is an empty chair, stories to sustain us, and one less hug at the end of the evening. We rejoice in our eternal reality, though sensing profoundly the separation between what this life has to offer and what the next life promises. And yet, we go on, knowing we are loved.

when technology fails

Beep . . . beep . . . beep, the alarm sound I always regret hearing forces me to roll over and reach out to silence the clock, as my fingers move across the small table to locate my glasses.

Tired from going out to dinner the night before, I make my way down the hallway to the kitchen where I turn on the light and start the coffee. I sense the presence of my dog, roused from sleeping in his chair to follow me in his stealth-like way, waiting patiently by the door as I untangle the leash and lead him outside where the early morning sky welcomes me with its bright array of stars. I bask in the quietness, the chill of the air, the pause before the rush of the day.

Once inside, I reach down into the large bag of dog food, filling the scoop to pour into the dish. This same order of events happens daily though I am often the one who takes the weekend shift.

I then pull a standard white ceramic cup out of the cupboard, remembering momentarily how colorful the Christmas mugs were, already placed in the back of a neighboring cupboard to take their rightful place on the shelf above the coffee maker sometime after next Thanksgiving. A larger cup is what I need but it is too early for decisions so I take what I now have filled with coffee and enough cream to turn it the color of milk chocolate and walk back to my work room.

Online I read my lenten devotion and begin to peruse the newsfeed when I stop--abruptly.

The dog has gotten comfortable and gone back to breathing deeply, as I turn off the light and crawl back into my bed.

It is there my now wide-open eyes attempt to readjust to the dark room, unable to comprehend the coaxing my mind is doing to override recent events and lure them back into a state of slumber. I will have plenty of time to ponder the inescapable reality that the clock chosen to awaken me in time to go to the Farmers' Market is apparently no longer functioning correctly. Instead of sounding the alarm at 5 a.m., it went off at 3 a.m.

And I already drank almost an entire cup of coffee.

nothing to offer

The sweet yet tart lemon pie filling resisted solidification as more time and higher temperatures were doing little more than burning what had started out as a perfectly good crust. I would have to come to grips with the reality that my attempt to make a pie had failed and I had nothing to bring to the covered dish luncheon at church. I sighed deeply, unsure of where this possible sin ranked among the faithful.

I have been baking since I was ten years old and take a certain amount of pride in what I create. Being able to offer my dad a piece of homemade cherry pie could somewhat make up for the fact that I could not lift a bale of hay and was not his best pick for someone to fill in on the asparagus picker. Too small, too slow, too sunburned--there were plenty of reasons to find someone better. But in the kitchen I could make a wide variety of cookies, candies and pies that would fill the house with the aromas of cinnamon and chocolate, letting me feel like I was contributing something special.

The old-fashioned advice: the way to a man's heart is through his stomach, served me well over the years. I remember bringing a chocolate pecan pie over to my friend's house the night he proposed marriage. It provided a delicious passage for our conversation to travel from our philosophies of life to how many children we planned on having. He would offer his heart along with his house, his hopes and dreams. I would offer unending batches of chocolate chip cookies.

There are certain go-to dishes that are always a crowd pleaser. My molasses cookies with the butter cream frosting are standard fare for the church gathering and a small fan club cheers me on whenever I show up with a tray of them. But I did not have time to make them. And because it is Lent I needed to forego with anything chocolate. So lemon pie with meringue was my next favorite.

Having made this recipe before, I thought it would be a sure thing. The crust turned out almost like my mother used to make. I say almost because she would make her crust thinner and even more perfect. I heated the milk and whisked in the sugar-corn starch combination. It was supposed to thicken and seemed like it was starting to do so when the lemon juice and zest were added. Maybe the lemons were bigger than usual providing too much juice. Maybe it did not cook long enough. At some point I decided it was time to pour it into the crust-lined pie pan and put it in the oven. I would whip up the meringue while it was baking.

Every ten minutes I would check to see if the liquid filling was setting and would close the oven door, look at the clock and go on about my business for another ten minutes. This went on way too long. At one point the filling started bubbling, rising to the top of the pan and even overflowing. I had turned up the heat trying to force an end to the baking. Nothing worked. By this point the outer edge was not only covered with a sticky lemon coating but the additional heat had turned it black. This pie would never be leaving the house.

In a last ditch desperate maneuver I let the pie cool a few minutes before putting on the meringue that was already losing its lift. I then put it back in the oven with the crazy idea that I would pull it out and the meringue would be lightly toasted, covering over the disaster of a scorched crust, but alas, there was no saving it. I had failed.

I was too tired and it was too late for me to do anything more. I would see what I could come up with in the morning.

Waking before the alarm I lay in bed taking a mental inventory of the pantry. Baking staples--flour, sugar, oil take up one part of it. Spaghetti sauce, barbeque sauce, tomato soup, noodles, beans and random items like mustard and Nutella make up most of the rest. I would have to get out of bed to check the freezer and refrigerator, coming up empty-handed.

I can make great biscuits from scratch using cheddar and parmesan cheeses and wonderful scones made with lots of cream and butter, served with lemon curd. Recipes flashed before my eyes until I had to face the reality that apart from bringing my newly purchased chips and salsa, which I knew the people at church may not appreciate nearly as much as my sons will, I had run out of ideas.

I had nothing to offer.

I did not like to explore this nothing-to-offer status. It made me feel dependent, forced to wait in a child-like place for my need to be met. I tried to push aside the emotion welling up within me and order my thinking. All I needed to do was to make something edible to bring to church. How hard was that? But in my desperate attempts to do the acceptable thing, I discovered what I needed more was to move beyond self-sufficiency into peace. My perfectionistic tendencies were predictably encouraging me to react in self-protective ways, but I could not come up with a viable excuse. With failure staring me in the face and no immediate way to fix it, I had to take responsibility for messing up. It was no one's fault but my own, and . . . .  Right in the middle of my ensuing panic came the voice of the steadfast Spirit calling to my heart to stop striving and simply reach out my empty hands--to Him.

Tables were overflowing with each person's homemade delicacy as I got in line to eat. Afraid I would feel ashamed for having contributed nothing, I instead felt only gratitude. No one asked me what I brought. There seemed to be plenty of food for all. The only One who knew my heart at that moment was the one who held my empty hands in the quiet of the morning, giving me the freedom to be released from my self-imposed requirements--to offer myself and nothing else.

As for the pie, though it did not look pretty as the meringue pulled away from the sides exposing the burnt edge of the crust and a filling that never did set correctly, its flavor was much better than I expected, and when we got home, my family happily got out their forks.

workshop

Earlier today, I was supposed to be sitting in an afternoon workshop "exploring new and interactive ways to journey from the outer edges into the very heart of God through worship," the brochure promises, after attending a morning workshop for Clerk of Session, the title given to me at church.

Lunch was perhaps turkey, thinly sliced with avocado on a croissant, or maybe a savory tomato soup with a cheese biscuit. For dessert there may have been chocolate brownies which I would have had to pass up because it is Lent. I would drink more coffee and having no one to sit with or talk to I would be reading an issue of The Sun, a literary magazine, which I brought along to arm myself against loneliness in crowds, which is usually where I find myself feeling most alone.

My anticipation for this conference began about a month ago when after what turned out to be a rather trying Session meeting I was sent an email from the church secretary offering me a life-line in the way of these workshops. I could never figure out if she just happened to be reading her Presbytery newsletter or if someone gave her a heads up that I was in need of information. In either case, I made use of the news of this upcoming event and promptly registered.

I then had a month to wonder why a conference called Exploring the Outer Edges was not filling me with the excitement that should accompany such a journey. As a seasoned warrior of church life, I had been trying to overcome those Outer Edge obstacles for many years and had yet to figure out how to feel like I had successfully made it over the edge and could pitch my tent inside the camp.

Most of the workshops I have ever attended have fallen into one of two categories: women's retreats or writers' conferences.

A women's retreat begins with women sharing the excitement of breaking free of the responsibilities of work--in and out of the home--by laughing, crying, dancing, praying, and not being asked what is for dinner. Workshops can range from intimate times of prayer to treasure hunts through neighboring towns. Free time can mean hiking up a mountain, talking over coffee or taking a much needed nap. There is a lot of emotion and a lot of connecting. Friendships are formed.

Writers' conferences, however, are not necessarily for making friends since most writers would rather not look up from their books. When walking into an auditorium filled with writers, one notices it is quiet--and this silence bothers no one. Having not gone to a writers' workshop in recent years, I wonder if the reading would be done on tablets or if actual books would be in the hands of those awaiting the keynote speaker. When one is reading a book, the book can become an invitation for conversation. When one is reading a tablet, no one knows what he or she is reading, thus eliminating all possible human interaction. It would depend on the day as to which one I would prefer.

Today was going to be a conference filled with Presbyterians--a group in which I now find myself. Both men and women are ordained as elders, or officers as they call themselves, and the same goes for teaching elders who lead congregations. Though being a Clerk requires the secretarial function of taking minutes and submitting them for the next meeting's agenda, this position is not held only by women. The effort made in bringing equality to leadership does not go unnoticed in this, my first go-round in a position of responsibility, unlike past positions in which I only led women.

Determined to represent my church to the best of my ability, I prayed my way over to the neighboring town's church that was hosting the event, and drove into an empty parking lot next to a church I could tell was locked even before I jumped out of my vehicle to check the door. Surely I would not be the only one who showed up, I thought, as I waited in the abandoned lot on the outer edges of the snowbanks. What does it mean to be the Church in the 21st Century?--the brochure asks. It apparently means checking the website before making the journey.

After getting my husband and son to join me for breakfast at my favorite diner, I came home to change back into my pink polka-dotted pajama bottoms and gray over-sized sweatshirt I wear when it snows. Still feeling chilled from being out, I prepared some hot honey citron tea, my latest obsession, and turned on Taize music to relax.

Not sleeping that well last night, I leaned back in my chair and fell asleep. I was transported briefly to an afternoon on a beach in which everything was warmed by the light of abundant sunshine. I could feel the warmth of the sand as I noticed someone sitting near me, unbuckling his sandals. I reached down to help, thinking about washing feet when I woke up to the Taize music, still playing.

Peace washes over me now, as I sit wondering if I had been momentarily in the presence of he whose sandals I am not worthy to unfasten.

unexpectedly

As I unloaded my vehicle last Saturday afternoon, gingerly walking on the ice-covered driveway as I carried my bed spring display rack to the storage shed, I discovered a paperback book wedged between the passenger-side back seat and the side of the car.

Tired from a morning at the Farmers' Market and feeling discouraged since I had made no sales that day, I barely looked at the book, focusing instead on its possible ownership. Since I increasingly drive alone these days, I could not imagine who would have left it behind, especially since my youngest son, the last one left at home, has not yet fallen in love with books.

It was just a week ago a friend had travelled with me to Chapel Hill to attend a lecture, and visit my oldest son, who has finally discovered the joy of reading. My friend had left her bag in the back seat and though I was not paying close attention to it, I wondered now if it had been a tote bag like many teachers carry, containing books. Perhaps one had fallen out. Speculation was endless as to how this book could have entered my vehicle and gotten trapped there, as my mind raced to solve this mystery.

The book, a book of prayers entitled Wonder, Fear, and Longing started working on me, but it was not until I turned the book over to read the outside back cover, as is my tendency whenever I find a book in my hands, that the sentence at the top in all caps overtook me: WHAT DOES YOUR HEART NEED? And though one would think this would get my attention in a good way, inviting me to explore my inner world, my immediate reaction was to throw the book against the house as I was walking toward the door. Not ever wanting to damage something as precious as a book, I found the self-control to refrain.

WHAT DOES MY HEART NEED?! WHO WANTS TO KNOW?!! AND WHAT DIFFERENCE DOES IT MAKE ANYWAY?!!! It was just a question. It was just a book. But its message was now interfering with my state of mind, already picking up speed to head in a dark direction. The book was in essence saying, "Excuse me, can we talk?" and I was uncharacteristically saying, "NO!"

Forcing myself to take this book head-on I did eventually read the back cover: "The point of this book is to encourage you to give yourself to God--your anger, your fear, your gratitude, your curiosity--your real self to the real God, because then (and only then) will your heart find peace (even in the midst of wonder, fear, and longing)." I did not want to read this. I needed to read this.

As I continued to read the book, it sounded familiar to me. The words fell like raindrops on the dry, cracked soil of my heart, broken wide open as the pastor of my church, who had become a good friend to me and to my family, would transition into another position in another state, leaving behind a stack of books--one for me and one for my husband--since he, like us, loves to read and to learn. I had walked into the conference room at the church after he had cleared out his office to see a large table filled with what I recognized had once lined his shelves, when I would meet with him across the round table usually covered with stacks of books as well. Books written about the faith we shared; books on history, various religions; books meant to guide someone in his or her life's journey. Books to challenge one's thinking and ask meaningful questions.

Walking out of the conference room that day, carrying as many books as my arms could hold, I unceremoniously tossed them into the back seat of my vehicle and drove away choking down more tears. I did not want these books coming home with me. I wanted them to remain on the familiar shelves of someone I would counsel with, talk to and assist in leadership. Taking these books was forcing me to realize that someday when that office door would again be open, nothing would look the same. The pictures on the walls would be taken down, replaced by the memorabilia of someone new. Personal effects would all be gone. A day or two later a friend would show up with a box containing one of these artifacts: the carved four friends embracing around a fire candle holder. It used to be on the corner of the pastor's desk. I do not know how I knew that particular item would be in the box my friend stood holding on my doorstep after he called to say he had something to give me. I just knew.

It was this friend I suspected placing the book in my vehicle, once the friend who had attended the lecture with me said it had not fallen from her bag and did not belong to her. The fertile soil of my imagination began to spring forth with all kinds of conclusions and scenarios. Rarely did I leave my car unlocked at church. Only when my son wants to get a practice run in on the way home does this ever happen, as he needs access to the car so he can change into his running clothes and head on before I am often ready to go.

I tried to figure out opportunities and motives. Did someone plant this book for me because it is common knowledge that I am in dire need of guidance? Who would do such a thing? Has my privacy been violated, my private property infringed upon, or am I being blessed by someone who cares? Does anyone care? A mind can wander far afield in no time at all.

It never once occurred to me until this morning, as I finished reading the book, that I believe my pastor once lent it to me and I had previously read it. As I had driven home from the church after gathering up the books that day, the stacks had shifted as I rounded the corners, driving too fast as usual, and I am now absolutely certain that this book fell completely off the edge, lodging itself between the seat and the side of the car. There it would remain until the time of this divine appointment, when I would find it waiting for me. I would again read it to rekindle wonder, subdue fear and take a good look at what it is I am longing for. I would be inspired to pray. I would be inspired to write. I would find peace.

Like the unexpected snow, gently covering over the dry grass and leafless trees with refreshing beauty, God has a way of gathering together the broken pieces of one's heart and speaking into them life that will turn a dormant season into one of growth again. What does my heart need? To be loved: when I least expect it and when I need it the most.