a gray day, with all the Christmas worn off

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

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

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

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

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

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

O come let us adore Him.

reflection

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

discordant harmony

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

learning through experience

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

here I am

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

(Here I Am Lord by Dan Schutte, 1981)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

my name

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

8 hours

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

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

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

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

Today is a new day.

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

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

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

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

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