Divine Imperfections

Growing Up & Stepping Out

We’ve passed that same spot every Tuesday night for nearing a year. But something about this evening compelled me to stop and take out my “big camera,” as friends have always dubbed it.

 I had no idea at the time how much I needed that, but I did.

 

 

For the last – well a while, now – words have failed me.

My trusty hobby/habit/escape of writing has seemed impossible and not enough, all at the same time.

 

I’ve been wrestling with the ideas I’ve held dearest for all of my life, and that battle has left me exhausted, scarred and silent.

 

It’s not the first time this has happened to me, but it is definitely the longest drought I’ve had as a writer.

 

And it’s been hard on my soul, if I’m telling the truth (at the risk of sounding melodramatic, which I probably am). 

 

Among the many thoughts weighing on me, is the pestering question, “How do I step forward in faith, when the mustard seed that grounded me as a child, has become the very thing holding me hostage as an adult."

I’m truly anchored by hope, but at a time when my heart’s desire is to set out to sea.

 

And so it’s hard to know how to grow, how to take the next steps,
how to become the person I believe I was designed to be,
when it goes against so much of who I was taught to be.

 

 

When I broke out the camera, I did so to capture the storm clouds rolling in. I’m so sick of the rain. Even the lakes are sick of the rain.

But for some mysterious reason, seeing the almost-rain, felt magical somehow.

The eerie shadow they cast on a field of grain…

The clouds created a haunting scene of wildflowers growing, and muddy trenches, and so many signs warning people to keep out.

 

 

 

I wanted to wade into the middle of it all, but decided not to get my shoes dirty.

I wanted to disobey those signs.

 

But instead I stayed safe, at the edge.

 

  

And I think that’s been my biggest problem all along. 

I want to be safe, comfortable, and the “good girl” I was raised to be.

I don’t want to rebel. I don’t want to shirk tradition.

 

I want to fit in, and be liked.

 

I want to go with the flow. I don't want to ruffle feathers.

I certainly don't want to disappoint anyone, or feel rejected by the family of faith that was so essential to my childhood.

 

 

But the problem is, what was once safe and comfortable, has become soul-crushing, for me. 

Because trying to stay in one place for so long, trying to grow - but only so much as seems acceptable to others - has stamped out the creativity and desires I have.

 

 

Instead of trusting myself, I’ve put my trust in others under the guise of believing I was putting my faith in God. 

And that has created a horrible mess that I’ve been trying for years to unravel.

Which, I think, explains the frustration and the silence, but hardly makes clear where I must go from here.

 

 

 

So many clichés are running through my mind right now, which is probably a side effect of watching too much TV (and yes, spending way too much time on Pinterest).

 

 

 

“Bloom where you are planted.”

 

“A flower does not think of competing with the flower next to it. It just blooms.”

 

 And my favorite, as of late, and the only one unrelated to flowers…

 

 “A ship in harbor is safe, but that is not what ships are built for.”

 

 

That one resonates with everything in my head.

Those stupid rattling thoughts I can’t seem to let go of or sort out.

 

 

It’s not like I think I’m some special flower that needs an acre to bloom, or some crazy nonsense like that.

It’s not that I think faith, in and of itself, is stupid or foolish or naïve.

 

And it’s not even that I want to walk away from everything I’ve ever known and believed, and trusted, much less to run in the opposite direction.

 

 

It’s just that it makes me angry – and feel a little stupid - to realize how long I was worshiping not a mysterious, almighty Creator, but a boxed-in idol.

An idol that claimed to love me, while telling me everything about the way I was created was sinful and wrong.

An idol created by men who refused to do the frustrating work of true faith, which is dependent on leaving space for the mystery.

 

Real faith requires stepping out of comfort zones.

It means risking and failing.

 

And most of all, it means living. Really living.

Not hiding from the world, trying to stay safe.

 

I don't know much, but that can't be what we were made for, much less saved for... to simply survive.

Surely abundant life is bigger and better than that.

Surely true freedom is more radical than that.

 

 

So… why pictures? Why break out the “big camera?”

Wasn't that we were talking about? 

  

In many ways, lately, photographs are speaking the thousand words I can’t seem to find.

They’re capturing the irony that is merely existing in a world with warning signs posted in fields of wildflowers.

 

 

I don’t know if anyone will relate to these rambling thoughts, or even these photos.

But if you do find yourself wanting to step out of your comfort zone, afraid to muddy your shoes… 

Afraid you won’t find a path to walk if you take one too many steps off the road most travelled…

 

Just know that you’re not alone.

 

There are more of us than we think, standing at the edge weighing our options.

Wanting desperately to wade into the unknown, but afraid what it means for our futures.

 

 And I think it's okay to be afraid. Princess Diaries taught me it wouldn't be courage without the fear.

But I can't let the fear control me. 

 

 

Honestly, I don’t know what comes next or where exactly I’m supposed to go from here, only that I can’t spend the rest of my life wondering. Waiting. Stuck.

 

I’ve been on the sidelines long enough.

I have to step out, step forward. 

I’ve been a good little girl long enough.

It’s time to grow with abandon. 

 

Maybe what we some of us need most to hear, isn't to bloom wherever we were planted.

But to bloom where we are, now.

The Waiting Room: What I REALLY Want to Say

Every woman I know is waiting on something.

 

She’s waiting till she knows which school to attend, or waiting to find that first big job after college. 

She’s waiting for the right guy to come along, or for Mr. Right to put a ring on it.

 

She’s waiting on a promotion, or maybe a change of pace.

She’s waiting to have her first real home and put all those HGTV hours to good use. Or she’s waiting to replace the washer that just went out, the roof that leaks…

 

She’s waiting to pee on a stick and see positive news.

Or, she’s gotten the good news, and stretchmarks, and now she’s waiting for her little blessing to arrive already.

 

She’s waiting for a rambunctious rugrat to enter grade school, or for her overly-scheduled pre-teen to get his license so she can finally retire from chauffering…

She’s counting down the days ‘til her stubborn teen leaves for college… or waiting for her prodigal to come home again.

 

She’s waiting for the results.

Or for retirement. 

Or for the bottom of her proverbial cup to fall out.

 

 

The point is, she’s waiting. 

Every woman I know is waiting for something.

 

 

 

And what can I say to her? 

What words can ease that all too familiar sting of the stuckness?

 

 

Sometimes even words of true wisdom come too soon.

They seem too trite to touch the softest parts of our heart. The mushy, vulnerable parts that only a privileged few even get to see.

 

 

Many an otherwise-goodwilled and gracious woman ends up wanting to punch people in the face.

Because well-intentioned or not, some words of “wisdom” or “perspective” hurt more than they heal, especially for a woman fragile from the waiting.

 

 

After much deliberation, and time, and prayer and reflection, not to mention sitting around in my own waiting room, there is only thing I have to say to the other women, waiting with me.

 

“Waiting sucks!”

  

And boy do I mean it.

 

It’s not nearly enough granted; I know that.

But maybe, it’s a start.

  

Waiting sucks.

 

We all know it. 

We have all been there.

So why are we so reluctant to admit it?

 

It’s infuriating, feeling helpless. Feeling trapped.

Imprisoned not by chains, but by circumstances.

 

 

I’ve been told that waiting is character building. And I have indeed seen women transformed by painful seasons of waiting.

They’re not always changed for the better, though. That’s something else that rarely gets said.

 

 

Time alone doesn’t heal all, fix all. 

In fact, time can be a great breeding ground for bitterness.

 

 

As a fave rom-com puts it, “Time wounds all heals.” And it totally can, if we’re not careful.

 

 

But waiting doesn’t have to be a time for cultivating contempt, for throwing a pity party, or for picking at wounds that have just started to scab over.

 

It is possible to hear something other than our metaphorical clocks taunting us.

 It’s possible to hone in on something other than opportunities that seem to be passing us by.

 

 

There is a subtle choice that presents itself in the waiting room.

It’s an invitation that arises so quietly, so covertly, it’s no wonder it often gets overlooked.

 

But it’s there nonetheless; it’s a choice to dwell on something bigger than our suffering, something truer than our feelings.

It’s a choice to recognize Someone at work, even there, in the waiting.

 

 

That Someone is a great Physician and a Healer, and He isn’t leaving you alone in that crowded, germ-infested waiting room.

 

He isn’t with another patient.

 

He’s not some wizard hiding behind a curtain, who delights in keeping people in the dark.

 

He’s right there alongside you, Someone who knows well what it means to wait.

He promises to diagnose and treat your deepest hurts.

But even more comforting, He also empathizes better than anyone, and He takes joy in sitting with you.

 

He is honored to wait patiently with you.

Even when your patience has long run dry.

 

Because He delights in being there for you, and He longs to be there with you.

That's what I know to be true, even when I don't feel it. At all.

 

 

I think one of the peskiest truths about life is that we get to make a great many choices – which bread to buy, what music to listen to, which friends to confide in, where to vacation this summer – and yet, ultimately, we have relatively little control in how our lives turn out.

We can’t predict when it will rain, when someone will die, which of our friends will be first to get pregnant, or which celebrity marriage will last the longest.

 

We can’t foresee what lies on the road ahead, only make the best decisions we can based on the information we’re given.

 

So much of life is about taking leaps of faith and hoping for the best.

Which goes against so much of what I want.

(Uh, predictability. Comfort. A detailed, dated plan.) 

 

 

Sure, we can plan. We can research. We can pray. We can seek guidance.

And we should, absolutely, do all those things I think.

 

 

But at some point we also have to swallow the tough pill we’re all given, which is that we can’t control everything, no matter how hard we try.

  

Things are not in our control.

Things happen.

And we choose how we respond to them.

 

  

This has been such a tough week for so many.

A tough week that has followed tough months for so many women I know.

 

My heart breaks for the women who have lost homes, loved ones, all sense of security after the storms that have ravaged so many parts of our country. (Did I mention I originally wrote this TWO years ago, after tornadoes had hit? Sad and funny how true it all still is.)

 

Just as my heart still aches for those women I know that will spend another Mother’s Day aching for a baby to fill their arms. Another Valentine’s Day wondering when/if their Prince Charming will come. Another day wondering when the darkness will lift from their souls, and they will be able to smile again without pretending.

 

 

I don’t know exactly what you are going through, or what you need.

I only know that I’ve been trying to “finish” this post since February (2013!!!!), painstakingly pouring over every word, but I keep stopping short.

'Cause it still feels so small. So not enough to address the hurts we are feeling.

  

 

Truth is words will never be enough. Still, sometimes they need to be said just the same.

 

And these words are the ones I most need to say. 

To my friends, to my family, and to myself, here in the waiting:

 

 

It’s okay to feel bad, stuck, or even pissed (gasp!) about being here.

 

You are human, plain and simple. Feelings of frustration come with having flesh.

 

 

True friends – the ones you trust with the softest parts of your heart - know they won’t be able to make everything better. (They know ‘cause they’ve been there too.) 

So they won’t try to put a Bandaid on your deepest hurt, unless maybe it’s a really cute one that they know will make you smile.

 

 

But they will be willing to sit with you in the waiting. To be stuck with you. To cry with you.

(And to, let’s face it, eat as much ice cream/cookie dough/Paleo-friendly diet dessert you think is needed.)

 

Just because we can’t always change our circumstances doesn’t mean we can’t change.

  

Sometimes we need to act, for our own sanity. 

We need to do something, to fill the waiting.

 

We can volunteer to babysit. We can pick up a hobby. We can revisit an old love (like sewing, or softball).

We can encourage others by sending cards, saying prayers, showing up with a hug and flowers. (Never underestimate the power of flowers!)

 

 

We can even make demands, if we need to. To barter, to beg. To scream “Enough.”

To plead our case, on our knees before God, even if we doubt He hears.

Even in the moments it doesn't feel like He cares.

 

And I don’t say that as someone who has ever won a fight with God, but because the quickest way to get through conflict isn’t to dance around it. Unfortunately.

 

Sometimes we think He can’t handle what we really want to say. We think wrestling with him would be like starting a WWE Smackdown in the middle of a Sunday School class, or screaming at those stupid portraits of Jesus as a Brad Pitt-haired, blue-eyed Jesus.

But God is so much bigger than the boxes and buildings we try to stuff Him in.

He’s also a lot tougher than the softie, oil painting Jesus we’ve grown up with in those quiet church halls.

 

If He could conquer death, and the pain and humiliation of hanging on a cross, He must be more than able to handle our hurts and anger.  Right?

I sure think so. I trust so.

 

 

More than good Christian soldiers marching bravely on, I think He desires children that come freely to Him.

With their joys and their praises, sure. But with their pain and struggles too.

 

  

As much as my academic heart hates to admit it, all the work, all the research, all the effort in the world cannot ensure an outcome. (Unless we’re talking math, ugh math.)

No matter what we do, we can’t control the outcome of our actions. We definitely can’t control the world.

We can’t fix our friends’ circumstances anymore than we can fix our own.

 

The sooner we accept this, the sooner we’re able to be the women our friends and family really need.

 

'Cause they don’t need Super Woman. They don’t need invincible, or infallible.

They need present. They need honest. They need human, strange (and liberating) as that may sound.

 

 

 

They need you. And they need me.

As we are. Fully ourselves.

 

Not hiding behind masks of strength, or stone walls.

Just us. Waiting women.

 

Reluctantly waiting women. 

 

 

I could go on and on and on about this subject. I have already, geez, and I'm sure I will again. 

‘Cause like it or not it’s something I’m learning a lot about.

 

But this feels like a start, at least. This feels like the right place and time to start.

 

 

Thank you for letting me say what I needed to.

I hope you might find some comfort in knowing you’re not alone.

 

 

I pray that you might discover ultimate Hope in a Counselor, Comforter and Friend that knows exactly what you’re going through, and promises not to leave you there alone.

But also in friends willing to sit with you, in the flesh, while you wait.

FMF: Release

Tears. 

Anger.

 

Pressures.

Steam.

 

Those things need out. 

Scary as it may be.

 

You can’t keep it all bottled inside.

You can’t keep yourself hidden inside.

 

 

Fears.

So many fears.

That haunt your dreams.

Those too have to be set free.

 

Lest they run your life.

Lest they ruin your life.

 

 

It’s good to care.

To be compassionate. 

To love deeply.

 

Natural to want the best for those you hold dearest. 

But they can’t control you.

You can’t give them the reigns to the only life you’ve got.

 

So release the idea that your whole purpose is being there for them.

And embrace that your role is both bigger and smaller than that.

 

 

When the weight of the world is on your weary shoulders, it’s hard – impossible really! – to take even a single step forward. 

But when you release it, the need to control all things, fix all things, be all things, you can breathe again.

And when you are breathing again, those baby steps don’t seem near as difficult.

  

 

Celebrate the progress.

Release the past.

 

Mostly, show up.

Be present. Today.

Do your best today.

 

Let tomorrow worry about itself.

 

Exhale.

Inhale.

Repeat as needed.

 

 

Release.

Five Minute Friday: Nothing

Nothing. 

It’s my go-to answer.

 

 

 

What’s wrong? Nothing.

Of course, what I mean is everything.

 

EVERYTHING!

 

Life is so hard; there’s no way around that.

There’s nothing you can say to make it easier.

No magical cure for the troubles that plague us.

 

 

What are you up to? Nothing.

It’s my code word for avoiding the truth.

The truth is I feel stuck, and I’m sad about it.

I’m not moving forward. I’m not making progress. 

I’m treading water, ‘til my legs throb.

And still I’m barely keeping afloat.

 

 

I’m drowning, quite basically. And worse. I’m refusing to do a thing about it.

I’m not kicking harder and faster to beat the waves, at last.

 

I’m not screaming for help either.

I just keep… almost going under.

 

Nothing ever changes.

That's a fear most days.

 

 

What do you have to offer? Nothing. 

That’s what it feels like some days.

 

 

What do I have to give the world?

What can I do to make others’ lives better?

What can I do to make a positive difference during this blip of a life I’m given?

 

Nothing.

 

It’s what I want to say, what I feel inside. 

What I am afraid to admit. What I’m sure no one will understand.

 

  

 

Only somewhere deep down I know it’s not true.

 

I know that I’m not alone in feeling that way, but also that those feelings aren’t based in truth. 

 

Part of me knows nothing is hopeless, even if it seems that way some times.

 

 

 

 

But what can I do to really, finally change things?

 

For a long time I worried I'd have to change everything to see any difference.

I'd have to walk away from every thing I ever believed in, everyone I ever loved, in order to find myself somehow.

 

But now I'm thinking the answer is much simpler, and less painful, than all that.

I think the key isn't to change everything.

It's to not do nothing.

 

 

I can show up.

I can refuse to give up.

I can try harder.

I can ask for help.

 

I can take a break.

I can take baby steps. 

I can take my time.

I can take a deep breath.

 

Mostly I can admit I know next to nothing, and learn to trust that’s okay.

I can do something, and hope for the best.

 

*This lovely print is sold out, but you should follow the link anyways.
The entire website sells wonderful (& inspiring!) tees, posters,
and gifts that benefit different charities. "Do what you can."

Five Minute Friday: JOY

 

 Joy.

A word I love. Something I aspire to.

Something I was taught isn’t as fleeting, or fickle, as happiness.

  

Joy. Everlasting.

Joy abundant.

  

Joy.

  

I wish I knew more about Joy.

What it takes to achieve it, if you achieve it at all.

 

Maybe it comes to you, like a perfect autumn leave that makes its way to your path, forcing you to stop, in amazement, at the richness of its fleeting beauty.

Maybe it surprises you, like love, always to be found when you least expect it, or feel least deserving. 

Maybe it is loud, like tejano music filling the neighborhood while hundreds of people learn salsa moves in the parking lot down the street.

Maybe it is soft, like that ratty t-shirt you look forward to putting on each night. The one that’s paper thin from years of wear. Ugly, but perfect, in all its imperfection.

 

Maybe joy is like a long, tight hug after a long, hard day.

Maybe it’s unlike anything at all.

  

All I really know is I want more of it. I need more of it. 

I need to find, have, cling to, search for, share, celebrate, marvel over what Joy exists in this life.

 

*And that's five minutes. That's free writing. That's fun!

Here's where you can learn more about Five Minute Friday (which doesn't have to be completed on Friday at all)

Five Minute Friday: Choice

 

Choose you this day.

Choose who you will serve.

 

Choose.

 

 

“I’ve had choices, since the day that I was born.”

I used to hear that song a lot on country radio.

Only it never really rang true for me.

 

 

Yes; I had choices.

But it never really felt like that.

 

 

Mostly, I had pressure.

 

Pressure to make the right moves.

Pressure to always know just the right thing.

“Pressure, pouring down on me.”

 

 

Song lyrics aside, that’s really how I felt.

 

 

God’s grace was sufficient to save me from my sins.

But I shouldn’t abuse that grace. 

That’s what I was taught.

 

So from a very young age the pressure was on.

 

Not to abuse grace.

Not to disappoint God.

To make all the right decisions, all the stinkin’ time.

 

 

 It was exhausting.

And frankly, crippling.

 

Which is why, for the better part of my life, I felt like I had no choice in matters at all.

 

 

It was all about hunting down some divine sign, some Proverb written directly to me, that would tell me which school to attend, which guy to date, which haircut to get.

There was no accounting for my brain. My feelings. Any of the innermost stuff that makes me, me.

 

Only incessant hunting for flashing neon arrows pointing out “the path.” 

There was only chasing that allusive, Christian, yellow brick road, the one with only right choices.

The singular, universal path to keep a good follower right smack dab in the will of God

 

 

 

I’m almost 30 now.

 And while I could do without the crow’s feet, and there are days I long for the childlike faith I once had.

I don’t want to go back. And I won’t go back. (Lost reference.)

 

Because it feels too good, too freeing, knowing that free will isn’t some cosmic mind game God invented to test me.

  

It’s a gift.

 

It’s the gift, choice.

To be used how I see fit.

 

 

And I do still want to make the right choices.

I want to follow God’s path for me.

 

But not because a butterfly landed on my windowsill with a scroll. 

Or because Leviticus’ laws dictate which combo to order next time I’m at Whataburger.

  

I believe God gave me a brain, and a heart, and a soul, and the ability to choose, so that my life might be something wholly unique.

And I’ve chosen to not only accept that, but to embrace it.

 

 

Thanks for choice.

Amen.

 

This post is part of the Five Minute Friday linkup by Lisa Jo Baker.

The challenge: Write 5 minutes. No editing. No second guessing.

 

It's glorious. 

Check out what the other participants have to say about this week's theme: Choice. Here.

And please, please join in. It's liberating.

Five Minute Friday: Tree

Tree

 

Tree, family tree.

 

Like the tiny sapling that lived in front of my childhood home.

 

By high school its branches had reached the roof, and my window. Scaring me some nights as they brushed up against the glass.

 

 

Now when I go home, what was once no more than a twig with a few leaves, is a mighty elm that greets me before the door.

 

It tells me my travels are over.

 

That tree tells me I’m home again.

 

I’ve really grown to love that tree.

 

 

 

Now I think of the large shade tree outside the house I share with my husband.

 

I think of how many generations have lived in this home, and how much that tree must have seen.

 

 

Kids climbing its strong limbs as they stretch up towards the sky.

 

Birds making their own homes in it.

 

They greet me some mornings when I remember to wake up slowly, and sip my coffee, instead of running into the day like a suicide bomber.

 

 

Tree makes me think of the woodgrain pattern I intended to hand-emboss on all 150 of our wedding invitations.

 

How, for weeks, I thought I could do it all myself.

 

And tried.

 

 

I made one invitation, beautifully embossed, before a good friend stepped in.

 

“You just can’t do it by yourself,” she told me. And I wanted to cry with relief ‘cause I knew she was right.

 

 

So I gave up the woodgrain, and was pleasantly surprised how beautiful the simpler version of our invitation was.

 

I wish I’d known then that sweet friend wasn’t just talking about the invitations.

 

 

 

It’s hard to live in a world where we’re dependent on one another.

 

Like vines, like branches, all connected.

 

All tied together.

 

 

 

Some days we want anything but to be linked at the root with these people we call family.

 

We want freedom. Complete independence.

 

We want to be shut off, and separate, from the world.

 

 

But trees remind us of the truth underlying our dysfunctions, and our difficulties with vulnerability, and our pride, which get in the way of being happy at home.

 

Happy in relationship with our significant others, our parents, our brothers, our friends, our siblings, all these people sharing this same planet, this same sod.

 

 

 

They remind us that the only way to be strong, and to weather this world, to survive the cold winters and bring refreshing shade in the spring, to let others enjoy us, and others support us, is to be in this thing.

 

Together.

 

Like all those beautiful trees.

  - 30 - 

 

 

I think the reason I love the fall so much now, is because the autumn air encourages us to live in community. 

Sharing cocoa, sharing blankets, sharing long walks around the park. The very essence of fall is our need to be together.

 

Like I’m mesmerized by how many colors can exist on one single branch of a tree, I’m amazed how much better it feels to go through life with company. 

Thank God for fall, and the seasons that are easy to love.

 

If you're sick of hearing about Five Minute Friday already then I'm sorry, but I'm not sorry. I can't stop singing its praises.

 

Basically a bunch of great ladies (and a few guys) get together every week in cyber world and spend five minutes free writing about a new subject.

The beauty of it is the freedom that comes in shutting up the inner critic and just letting ideas loose.

Some weeks it's the only thing that restores my sanity. 

 

So, as I've said before, even if you're not yet ready to join the community (and let the world see your work; which you really should!) you should still give this exercise a try sometime. 

You never know what you'll get when you do. It could be disgusting, or it could be delicious. (Isn't that what Forrest taught us?)

 

And just like that we're back to trees. :)

Have a blessed weekend friends.

Five Minute Friday: TRUTH

 

 

TRUTH.

 

Truth is relative; that’s the fear I hear. 

And if truth is relative, then it won’t exist at all.

 

We’ll make it into nothing, by trying to say it could be something other than what we’ve been taught, what we’ve held so dear.

 

We cling tighter and tighter with each passing year, each war, each mindless shooting, each orphaned child…

Nothing else makes sense, so we hold tighter to what we do know.

 

Now we can’t remember if it was truth keeping us safe,
or if we were charged with saving it.

 

We set out to protect it, at all costs. Just to be safe.

 

If we open our fists to look at it, much less share it, we might lose it altogether.

So we tighten our grasp, cracking whatever mutated form remains in our grip.

 

Better a small, broken truth, than no truth at all.

And that’s what we tell ourselves, and assure those in our closed circle, each with hands cupping his own invisible commodity.

 

We are indivisible. We are one.

Set apart from those outside, those missing the truth that saved us.

 

This is what I see. 

And this is what I’ve known.

Certainty. Confidence.

At a cost.

 

Surely Truth was never meant to be held like this; like a vice. Like a right.

Like something to lord over others.

 Something to beat them down with, and keep them in line with.

 

Nevermind that we claim to be the only ones who can see, or set, those floating lines.

 

 Truth, to me, always sounded like Light.

 

Light like Love.

And Love like Freedom.

 

 

And Freedom like Grace.

 

Grace that can’t be clenched. Or controlled.

Earned. Or saved.

 

 

Grace that abounds in being spent up, given out, passed along, loosely held.

 

Grace that cannot be quantified, or calculated.

Grace that just is, with or without us.

 

 

Grace that doesn’t belong to any one person, or people group, or country, or religious sect.

Grace that is transformative, and transcendent.

Grace that covers the whole earth.

 

 

Grace best exhibited not by tight-knit circles, but by open hands.

 

 

 

The older I get, the more hurt I see. 

Hurt too often inflicted by those fighting in the name of truth.

 

 

And I’ve felt like a traitor, for questioning what it is I’m doing here.

Straining under the pressure of trying to cling to something that slipped out of my hands long ago.

 

 

I worried what would happen if I admitted I’d lost it.

The certainty. The confidence. My shiny security.

 

Would I be accused of trying to outrun or outwit the truth?

An enemy of all I once loved? 

 

Or, in accepting that my hands are empty, and giving up the fight, might I experience a Freedom I hadn't known before?

Might I find that Truth isn't made for keeping, but about being set free?

 

 

* I took a prolonged "vacation" from blogging there for a bit, and writing in general. (Sorta scary for someone like me, that processes best through internal dialogue followed by written, scribbled words.)

But the hiatus makes me all the more grateful that one little prompt could draw so much out of me. Stuff I've been struggling with for months now, unable to articulate.

These thoughts may still be a mess of rawness, scattered thoughts, but I, for one, am glad to get them out of my head. Thanks for "listening."

 

The Reluctant Reader: East of Eden

If ever you’ve wanted to read a book that will completely destroy your worldview, then build it back up slowly, page by page, a little dingier but also much stronger than before, then East of Eden is the book for you.

It’s 602 pages of California-inspired prose, ageless wisdom, and complex characters wrapped into one very epic novel.

 

And if you think that’s exaggeration it’s not. It’s totally not. 

I have never read a book that’s had a more profound impact on me, nor can I imagine one coming along anytime soon that will have similar effect.

 

That’s because everything about East of Eden is timeless, transcendent. It pulls you up into this grand, unfolding story, and even when it takes you to places you never dreamed you’d go, maybe never wanted to go, you can’t get away from it.

What’s more, you won’t want to get away.

 

 

You’ll want to keep pushing forward, because you’ll want to keep experiencing life with them, these characters come to life by John Steinbeck’s beautifully tragic words.

 

And the beauty of this story, the beauty of his words, is that they don’t invite you to stand along the sidelines and pass judgment on the characters. (God knows there’s plenty of that in real life.)

 

No. His words plead with you to crawl into the character’s shoes, even into their souls, to experience the feelings they do, and every painful step in their journey.

He wants you to do more than see the lives they lead; he wants you to live them.

 

As the characters fall in and out of love your heart will do the same.

And as the characters stumble in and out of sin, you’ll live vicariously, getting your hands dirty then trying desperately to scrub them clean.

 

Triumph and failure. 

Heartache and joy.

 

You are there. You are in it, the throws of a life not lived well, necessarily, but well lived for sure.

 

And the very subtle difference between the two is precisely where Steinbeck shines.

He excels in the ambiguous, the gray matters I, for one, am so prone to overlook.

 

He highlights, instead of shies away from, the parts of life that don’t fit neatly into our preconceptions.

And for that I’m thankful.

For that I'm a (marginally) better person I believe.

 

I don’t want to ruin a thing about the story, by getting into who lives where, and who loves whom.

I will, however, share with you the powerful thread that ties all those who’s together.

 

It’s the same thing that ties us all together, good and bad, young and old, kind and cruel, brilliant and fool.

 

 

It’s our capacity to make choices.

Our ability to choose which direction we take, and then to rethink that decision as we go.

 

 

We choose who we want to be, how we want to treat people, and what matters most to us. 

And we do so by making a thousand tiny choices everyday, choices that make up a life merely survived, or a life well-lived.

 

For a long time (most of my life) I viewed reading as an academic event. I saw it as an attempt, a ploy even, to gain more knowledge.

Lately I haven't much wanted to learn though, so the textbook like non-fiction I've anxiously purchased (though great) has started collecting dust on my shelves.

I've been looking for an escape instead, a break from the monotony of my daily existence, not an explanation for it or a How-To Cure.

 

East of Eden has offered just that. An esacpe. An outlet.

From the start it had me hopelessly, utterly caught up in its candor. 

And because it captivated my attention - and my heart - I ended up learning so much more than I could have expected.

 

The book made me feel less alone in my wondering, in my dilemma over which choices to make, and if I know my way at all.

And escaping into it actually helped me feel more connected to humanity. Because it made me feel understood, accepted, in a way that has compelled me to seek to understand others more.

 

What a crazy, incredible gift that is, to set down a book invigorated to live.

And to share that life with others.

 

No wonder it's stood the test of time.

No wonder I couldn't put it down.

No wonder I was a little sad to read the last page, but indescribably grateful too, for having experienced it firsthand.

 

 

Life as an adult can seem pretty grim sometimes.

So many responsibilities. So little time (and money) for fun, whimsy.

 

East of Eden doesn't shy away from the hardness of life. If anything it reminds us that some have it much harder than others.

But, and this is such a big but (pun not intended), it also points to a beauty often lost in our toil and strife. Beauty not always noticed this side of Eden, but beauty that exists, waiting for us to find it.

 

Beauty is what beckons us to aim for greatness, but also to gracefully accept whatever comes.

Beauty is our choices, our ladder to the stars.

 

Do yourself a favor. Take my word on this one.

Rent, buy or borrow this book, curl up with a blanket, and get lost for a while in the beauty that is Eden.

Music Memory: Not Alone In This

I don’t know what it is about music that is so transcendent, but nothing is better at drawing me out of my own head than words set to song.

When I’m crazy, on-the-verge-of-losing-it, I like to drive in the car with the audio at full blast. Somehow when the music is obnoxiously, almost painfully loud, it helps soothe me.  (It’s less soothing when I have passengers with me, but thankfully, that’s been rare.)

 

I think the music makes me feel smaller, in a good way. The way I feel when I’m watching waves crash onto the shore, or stars alone lighting an otherwise black sky.

When I remember I’m a small part in a very grand universe, it becomes a lot easier to let go of the weight of the world. And I’m thankful for that.

Last week was hard, in a lot of different ways, like turn the volume all the way up and yell at the radio, instead of singing along, hard.

I felt isolated with my worries, and powerless to change anything, much less fix anything.

But it was punctuated by something really amazing, something I needed much more than I realized as we loaded up the car.

My sister and I drove (she drove, graciously!) 4 hours last weekend to see a music festival in the tiny town of Guthrie, Oklahoma.

There were tons of bands there, only a handful of which we actually got to see, after parking nightmares and eating our weight in barbecue.

But even as a backdrop on our weekend, listening to Pandora in the car, and to local bands perform as we explored antique stores downtown, I was reminded how much a part of my life music is.

More importantly, I was made aware how much of a bigger part I wished it played.

 

How much I need it, to awake my soul.

 

Day to day it’s much easier to listen to other noises instead. The kind that come along, uninvited. The dishwasher running, and cars honking… my work phone ringing, or me hearing its phantom ring taunt me in a moment of silence.

It’s all NOISE.

And it’s all I hear most days.

 

 

But sometimes, when I remember to withdraw for a moment of quiet, of solitude, I hear the music creating a subtle soundtrack to my life.

The conversation hits a lull, and I notice a song playing in the restaurant. I’ve never heard it before, and may never hear it again, but it seems familiar somehow. It makes me feel at home.

 

It invites me up into the bigger story that’s happening, the one beyond hasty dollar store runs and hospital visits.

Yes. Letting the music bathe over me reminds me that so much of the bigger picture I can’t always see is beautiful. And what a shame it would be to let the tough or dark points overshadow all that good. 

 

Did I mention that concert we drove to was Mumford and Sons?

Most people love or hate them, it seems. I don’t know many bands so polarizing. And I get that not everyone is into alt-folk music; it’s not everyone’s cup of organic tea so to speak.

But man are they good musicians, like world-class, incredibly talented musicians.

 

That’s not what drew me to drive (ride) four hours to see them though. It might have gotten me to buy their CD, but it wasn’t reason enough to stand in a crowded field on a humid Saturday night, covered in red dirt and sweat.

What drew me to see them was this.

 

Seeing moms and their teenage sons both delighting in a single song …
witnessing bonafide hippies and hipsters, all sitting on blankets in the middle of a field… watching people raise their hands, and clap along, and laugh, and cheer, and I’m sure cry…
that is why I wanted to be there.

 

That is why I needed to be there.

 

I needed to be surrounded by people that had driven in from all different states, each leaving behind troubles of their own, that wanted to escape from the noisy world for a while.

People longing to be ushered into something beautiful. Something bigger than car maintenance, and time cards, and Intensive Care.

 

For an hour or so we got to be part of a unified community.

We got to close our eyes, and be swept up into a bigger story, one musicians tell us about with words and melodies.

It's the kind of story artists paint about. And novelists write about.

And occasionally, good preachers preach about.

And the weary, worn-out dream about.

 

No one musician, or artist, holds the rights to it, because no one will ever fully describe it.

But all the good ones point to it.

And the really good ones invite us to be a part of it.

 

And I love them for that. I am sooo grateful for that.

'Cause I need it, so much more than I realize most days.

I need to be one, of thousands, lost in a moment.

Lost in a melody.

 

 

When I’m happy nothing’s better than humming a cheerful song all day.

And when I’m sad nothing helps like a songwriter totally commiserating, and articulating, my emotional experience.

Loud and upbeat, or soft and slow… music always makes me feel less alone.

 

And ultimately, I think that’s all any of us really wants.

To know that we’re not alone in this.

 

Please check out the music video links above, and if you love the music GO BUY IT.

I can't think of anything else I can purchase for $1.29 that brings so much joy.