here I am

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

(Here I Am Lord by Dan Schutte, 1981)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

my name

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

8 hours

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

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

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

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

Today is a new day.

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

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

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

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

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

a choice

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

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

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

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

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

I have a choice.

the storyline

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

taking inventory

Sometimes I forget who I am.

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

On the stage of life, I play many roles.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Motherhood has made me less selfish, and more fierce.

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

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

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

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

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

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

on the precipice

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

WHAT?!

The money is not hers either, the voice continues.

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

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

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

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

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

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

And yet . . . .

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

It has been ten years.