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.