Month: December 2016

Still, The Light Shines In

On By LisaIn Arrow, Faith, Stella, The Chef2 Comments

I broke a glass in the dishwater. Drain plugged, steaming water filling the sink, soap bubbling up, dishes added and left to soak while I drank coffee and fed beasts. I returned to discover shards of glass hidden amongst the suds, one long stem of a wine glass no longer viable. Knowing danger was waiting, understanding other, safer choices were possible, I slide my hands into the water. The secret rush of wondering whether I would get cut. Would I beat the odds, could I find all the pieces and still get the dishes done? A ridiculous game to play for one who avoids risk. A really stupid choice for one with no health insurance. Yet I wanted to win over the brokenness. Just this little battle, a private struggle at the sink, a wine glass, some soap and me.

I am an expert on broken things. I have little sensation in my fingers so I often drop whatever I am holding, I usually keep lids on my cups. I have the same issue with my feet so I trip and stumble as if just learning to walk, especially after a long day. I break stuff. It is no longer remarkable around our home, we use plastic mostly. I don’t bother with glue, usually I create a mess beyond repair. More than that though, I am broken inside. I know my broken soul, my broken heart. These fractures are not meant to be mended either. The words of the great Leonard Cohen express it best, “There is a crack in everything, that’s how the light gets in.” My brokenness allows for grace, opens me up for growth. But fractures hurt. Each snapping of a relationship, a connection severed, carries shock-grief-aching-howling-wondering why-rush-to-fix time. I can embrace my broken soul, I give that to God. My heart, though, not so readily. I still howl, I still ache. I resent the cracks, I don’t see the stitched together portions as beauty, I want wholeness. Gifting love to another comes without their promises to handle with care, their assurances not to trip or stumble. Giving without strings, keeping that thread to close our own wounds, unconditional love, agape. This is how we break inside.

Like the glass in my dishwater, many broken things will never go back together, their purpose in my life complete. Facing that reality is easy with a wine glass, unthinkable with a marriage, a career, a child. How do we go on, do we howl forever, do we mourn continually, do we sit in the broken shards, naming and counting our cuts, watching our life drain away? The greater risk is to get a new glass, a fresh start, some Neosporin and a bandaid. Each step moving us away from the pain, maybe edging us to newness, to light. I didn’t get cut when I reached into the water. I walked away whole this time.  I have more glasses, I have a healing broken heart. I have new relationships and other wounds still fresh, maybe never to be fully restored. Still, the light shines in. Just as a prism reflects one light into a rainbow, God uses my broken heart, brighter more colorful lights reaching His other broken hearts, a beacon of welcome, a guide to find our way home. With Him as my Healer, my glue, the One to stitch me back up, I howl and cry more softly, I ease toward a new day.

 

Be Not Afraid

On By LisaIn Faith, Plum, The ChefLeave a comment

I am afraid of heights and mostly conquered that with my trip through the mountains on the back of my brother’s Harley. Unclear on the origins of this fear, I haven’t found it to be too disruptive in my daily life. I still accept all trips on planes, I climb out on the roof to fetch whatever Plum decided to toss up there. This fear hasn’t stopped me. I am also uncomfortable on bridges. I love pictures of them, I am deeply moved by the symbolism. I prefer to be on either end, not on, not crossing. I think there is a story in there, another day perhaps. My longest standing fear though has roots in childhood, is not proportionate to danger, is difficult given that I live in the country. I am afraid of mice.

Friends and family who have spent time with me in the fall, in the winter mostly all have a story of their own, a story that most often begins with a scream and the rushing of help, a bewildered look at me, then the rescue. Always unclear if they are saving me or the mouse but creating distance and secure boundaries is critical for each of us. A colleague many years ago offered to help, to do systematic desensitization. I knew this would help but I was too afraid. Phobia level. My response is automatic, deeply imbedded. I don’t want long term help, I don’t want any mice near me. For the record, I also don’t visit pet stores without knowing the floor plan, not chancing an unexpected encounter. By extension, gerbils, hamsters, oh dear God ferrets, all on the no-go list. Doesn’t it make sense that before I had children I had a pet snake? Of course I couldn’t participate in his feedings, but loved that he took an active role in easing my pain. So it is with great concern that I must admit I have been dreaming about mice for the last month. Dreaming, in my bed, in my safe sleep time. Mice.

When I woke this morning and remembered the mouse who visited was actually a rat, I knew it was time for help. Firing up my laptop, researching the meaning of “dreams about mice” while the coffee brewed, I needed answers and then solutions quick. This is getting out of hand. What I found was interesting, thought provoking. I generally am able to identify the themes in my dreams rather easily, I know what I am avoiding, what needs to be faced. I know how my brain nudges me when I am more vulnerable. I trust my dreams, I think God speaks to me then. Many years ago when I was particularly distressed about my brother’s death, when I just felt the ache of things not said when suicide changes everything, my brother came to me while I slept. He told me he was fine, he was good, to let him go. He said he loved me and he was safe. Then he was gone. I woke feeling peaceful, knowing truth. Every once in a while, my daughter and granddaughter visit me in my dreams, at first this was startling. I no longer hurt when these visits happen, I cherish the peek into her life, I hold onto the vision that God has shared with me. I wake with a hopeful heart, storing up these night time moments as if they were photos on my IPhone. I trust my dreams . So what to do about these visits from mice?

In considering these dreams, I realized I am never afraid during these encounters. The mice are not the focus, just a side story. My friends are often the ones who handle the mice, who interact with the rodents while I am doing my other dream business. I don’t wake afraid, rather annoyed that it happened again. My Googling explained I may be avoiding a small problem. Um, always. Or I may need to see mice as survivors, a species that uses ingenuity and creativity to solve problems. Hmm. Or maybe, if I see mice as dirty, I am feeling shame. Well, none of this narrows it down. I want that one concrete answer to solve my mystery and give me the steps to stop mice from scurrying into my slumber.  Maybe I need to trust what has already worked, to look to God rather than the internet.

“Do not be afraid of them, for I am with you and will rescue you,” declares the LORD. Jeremiah 1:8 (NIV)  What if the message is just that? What if God is summoning visions of friends who will help, opportunities to show me Chef and I have nothing to fear? My greatest phobia is meaningless when challenged with faith. I don’t wake afraid. Emmanuel, God with us. I can rest easy knowing my shame, my doubts, my worries are nothing compared to the power of my God. During this season of great uncertainty, finances and futures looking bleak, God is telling me not to be afraid. Who am I to doubt?

I am not going to lie, I am hoping that by looking into the mice dreams, finding the message will stop the visits before they turn into more rat roamings. I am saying loud and clearly, I got it! We are firmly in God’s care, we will come out of this trying season exactly as God wishes as long as we continue to follow the path He is laying before us. We are not promised easy, we are not guaranteed riches. We only have the promise of His mercy and love. Sometimes that looks like handling mice for me. Always it means handling much larger problems. I don’t need Google to tell me that.

 

 

 

Carrying the Candles

On By LisaIn Faith2 Comments

Last week at church, the candle of hope and the candle of expectation for the advent wreath were brought to the altar by two young ladies of our congregation. I have watched these girls grow from almost infancy, I see them weekly in the seats with their families. On this occasion though they were transformed into holiness, gently dancing in bright blue dresses up the center aisle to the sounds of the praise team singing “King of Heaven Come Down,” by Paul Balochi. They floated, they glided, I felt them carrying my hope,my expectation. This breathtaking arrangement was created by our pastor’s wife, an artist with incredible musical talent. Her vision to make the arrival of the candle into something we would remember, something we would feel, what a gift. Plum and I were playing on the floor as usual, our bits of Lego already in action when the music started. As the girls began, Plum got back up on his chair and was mesmerized. Tears trailed down my cheeks, my gratitude tokens to all who stopped us in our rustling, playing, thinking, ruminating and reminded us about hope.

This week, a member of our congregation closer to my age wore a blue dress and bravely danced before us all. She carried the candle of love. How many of us would volunteer for this? To wear something that clings a bit, flows a lot, drawing all eyes to ourselves, not a quick trip to the altar but gliding, lifting, swaying, stepping back and forward, slowly reaching our goal to place the candle in the wreath? My friend next to me wept. The holiness of women carrying these candles, offering themselves up to all of us in that we might experience the true meaning of each is just beyond any sermon I might hear. I spoke with the “love candle” carrier after the service, she said it was way out of her comfort zone. Isn’t carrying love to all exactly that? She does this daily, overseeing several ministries that reach the outer edges of our membership. She shows love every day, she helps us all do so in tangible ways. How appropriate that she carried that candle.

It would have been easy to just walk the candles up or even have them already at the altar, ready to light. It would have even been amazing to have the same young women bring them up each week. But how much stronger is the message, how much deeper is the lesson, to have our hope and our love carried in such a way? Hope and Expectation from our children, Love from one who has lived a little more. I am greatly anticipating next week, when Joy arrives.   The advent candles have never meant so much to me, ever. Well done, ladies. You have my attention.  Anxious for the arrival, reflecting on the meaning, longing for the coming.  You have transformed a rite, captured the holiness of the season with a dance, with a song. My soul hears, sees. Thank you.

 

King of Heaven, come down
King of Heaven, come now
Let Your glory reign
Shining like the day
King of Heaven, come
King of Heaven, rise up
Who can stand against us?
You are strong to save
In Your mighty name
King of Heaven, come

(Paul Baloche)

Truth Tellers From Patches of Light

On By LisaIn FaithLeave a comment

Honored to have my words shared on another writer’s site!

Damn Elf

On By LisaIn Faith, Plum, The ChefLeave a comment

That “Elf on the Shelf” thing seemed like a great idea a couple of years ago, back when Plum was living with us all the time. My need to create magic and joy to cast out some of the hurt and anxiety was in overdrive, Christmas was just the way to bring the sparkle back to his eyes. I sent away for our own elf, scoured Pinterest for ideas, created elaborate scenarios each night after he went to sleep. It was wonderful. Chef and I took pictures each evening, proud parents documenting the birth of elf activities. We all had sparkling eyes.

Life has since stabilized for my Plum, he no longer needs me to create his magic, bring back sparkle. Yet I am still stuck with this damn elf and I have to admit I am over it. I feel guilty writing that, I know this is very likely our last year in which he will believe such nonsense. I should be going all out. Still, the elf has about run its course, I am broke, exhausted and fully aware that any vista I create I have to clean up as well. Ho Ho Ho, merry Christmas.

Because Plum is only here a few nights a week, I could conceivably manage this. Yet he is so excited to see what “Elfie” has done that he wakes up several times throughout the night asking if he can get up. The beasts wake up, the cats run through the hallways, I say no and try to go back to sleep. Plum has my sleep patterns unfortunately, when he wakes it takes him forever to go back to sleep. We both look like hell at this point. I have explained that I am ready to contact Santa to see if Elfie can go back, Plum is calling my bluff. Is there an elf-recall hotline?  I put a digital clock in Plum’s room, taught him that the 6 has to be the in the first place before he can get up. This helps, he knows he can’t go downstairs. Now we need something that reminds him he can’t lay in bed and holler for me until the clock says 6 also. Or we need an Avenger, Captain America or Hawkeye, to come rescue us from the evil elf. I’m getting desperate, Elfie is no longer bringing joy.

I do have really cool ideas for the elf this year, I just don’t have the motivation by the time he goes to sleep and I am free to set things up. I am done by then, I am ready to sit for 5 minutes and then go to bed myself. Last night I was actually in bed when I remembered the elf, remembered he was waiting for his adventure. A certain level of denial is necessary for all of us to get through the holidays, suspending logic, relying on faith. I prayed for the strength to get out of my warm bed, back into the cold air, head downstairs, rousing the beasts, firing up the cats, all to set up the scene. A lame scene by Pinterest standards but Plum doesn’t scroll through that site yet. I am still only compared to myself, maybe memories of last year, but those are hazy in a child’s mind. I think. Elfie made it through another night, we barely did. “Gran, I’m thirsty.” “Gran, my tummy hurts.” “Gran, will you put the dog on my bed?” Each of these requests come about 2 hours apart, I am not equipped to deal with 2 hour wakings anymore. The Elf is going in time out, on strike, wicked away by reindeer, God help me, something.

I have at most 8 more attempts to make this elf rock, 8 more nights to reinforce the magic.  We are completely invested in telling the real story of Christmas, Plum is rooted in the faith. But just for a bit longer, I want to keep some magic for a little boy who hasn’t always had much to believe in. So today we are going to have a very serious discussion about sleep. A talk about waiting, about advent, about longing for things to come. We are going to remember all the people who waited for the Christ child, who walked and roamed and followed the star. We are going to consider how tired they were, how much they longed to rest. We will wonder what they did to prepare for the coming of the oh so special babe. Then we may just take a nap. Holidays are rough, elves are not so helpful, but the star is always leading to our true sparkle.

Truth Tellers

On By LisaIn Faith3 Comments

I am not a Kardashian follower. I don’t get the point, but don’t fault others who are. I don’t buy magazines with celebrities on the cover, eager to discover the latest events in the lives of the rich and famous. I just don’t actually care. They are just people to me, I wouldn’t buy a magazine with your picture on it and hope to delve into your secrets either. Yet I know I have my own idols, albeit nerdy ones maybe, but still, folks I have put on a pedestal and give extra weight to their words. I wait for a new post, I devour their phrases.  I find myself just enough in them to relate but know they are wiser, funnier, they never burn their own hair or wear mismatched socks. They are writers and women of substance, women who have it figured out and can help lead me along. It works great until I forget they are still human, women first. The fall off of the pedestal bruises us all.

Recently a woman I have followed and suggested to many others has taken a turn I cannot support, leading me to a place of choice. Baby with the bathwater? I read as her millions of followers fell over themselves to lay flowers at her feet, shout loudly about what a brave woman she was. I was looking for someone to say, “Hey, wait, I am a bit concerned. This doesn’t seem so healthy for you.” When you develop such a huge following built on relationship, don’t we have a responsibility to speak up or do we just take? I have wondered about all the stars who have gone astray, don’t they have anyone who tells them no? Where are the folks who’s heads go from right to left rather than always up and down?   I was saddened to see no posts telling this woman the truth.

Truth tellers are gift givers, they are the best kind of friends to have. To have opened yourself up to someone enough that they can hold your soul so gently and reflect back honesty is holy. We serve no one by building idols of each other or those in entertainment, athletics, any position of high profile or power. We serve all by building relationships of trust, becoming truth tellers and hearers. Yes hearing is the necessary other piece of this. To that end, I wrote an email to my “idol,” sharing concerns that the path she was following was fraught with danger. I didn’t expect a reply nor have I received one. Yet my soul felt easier after hitting that send button, I knew she was no longer on the pedestal but I found room for her in my grace-filled world.  I no longer devour her words, I know her choices are complicated right now. Still, I am better for it, softer for allowing her to be among us and not above us. The pressure to be perfect, by my definition or that of any of the millions who follow any idol have to be exhausting.

Maybe our idols aren’t the stars or great writers. The ones who follow are merely those in a congregation, lifting a pastor to a level not sustainable. Expectations of those who preach from a raised platform elevate with each step up. Remembering that these people have a calling, a gift, yes, but do indeed step back down to walk amongst us is critical in allowing them to remain human and not idols. They are walking with us: fallible, seeking, searching, stumbling. Maybe the ones we follow blindly are friends on social media, the ones we are sure have it all figured out. Comparing our real lives to what pops up in a picture, a newsfeed, makes it too easy to believe they are better at, well, just life. But who benefits from idolatry? Certainly not the idols. Certainly not us.

Telling the truth to ourselves, about ourselves, is that precious gift of humility so necessary to keep us focused on the One who IS perfect. Telling the truth to others is tricky, requires a level of trust and relationship, a respect for privacy. Prayer, though, for those we follow, requires nothing. I am deep in prayer for those I have elevated, beseeching God to put truth tellers in their paths and imploring God to open their hearts to hear. I pray also for my own soul, that I may always be wise enough to hear the truth from those who offer up this gift to me. After all, in the words of Ram Dass, “We’re all just walking each other home.”

Speaking from My Gut

On By LisaIn Faith, The Chef2 Comments

Chef and I have one phrase that can stop a debate, a disagreement, a battle of wills. We never pull it out willy-nilly, it is the big gun. Fortunately we both respect the rules of engagement, we understand the force of these words. They mean something. “My gut is saying…” means there is something deeper happening that maybe I can’t fully express and I don’t have to. I have a twitching, a twinkling, a clenching, that says,”Listen.” We trust not only our own gut-warnings but each others. That message means back off, let go of the argument, your spouse is hearing something and you need to pay attention. We have never gone wrong with this system, only the times we have individually ignored those warnings. As I talk to many of my female friends, I notice a tendency to dismiss that inner voice, to minimize their own early warning system, to find ways around it. But what if this is the Holy Spirit, what if this is God with us, speaking directly to us? No lightening bolts, no burning bushes, no angels, our own connection to God through an opened soul ready to hear Him say, “Be aware.” Would we dismiss this voice so easily?

My sweet friends are conditioned to ignore their inner voices, to challenge their own motives and look for the greater good. This is important, this is work towards a selfless life, one that Jesus asks us to live. Becoming accountable to each other is critical in our walk, ensuring our motives are not based in old drama, yucky patterns that distract us from growth and true soul searching. Yet my friends are just that self-aware, I think so many women are, and still they allow the external voices to drown out what is whispering inside of them. Excuses, allowances, bending, finding space for what feels wrong because that seems like what we are called to do. Yet I think we are so busy being nice we forget to be strong. The bible is filled with women who listened and acted, made some folks mad and furthered the work of God. Why are we afraid of making anyone mad? Where does our fear come from? Why do we have culture of being nice, of going along within the church?

When you speak up and are dismissed, when you ask questions and are gently rolled over, when you are not even invited to the table, you learn what is expected. You learn that while liberation may have come to the country, it may not have fully settled into the church. Just as we have a long way to go to find equality in government positions, look at leadership spots within the church, does that reflect the true make-up of the congregation? Do women handle education and men the finances? Is it really biblical that women follow quietly while men lead?  I am a rebel, I want to find our Jaels, our Abigails, our Esthers, Lois and Eunices. I want to hear the voices of our strong women whom I know God is speaking to, I want to listen to what their guts have to say. I trust their wisdom.

I think about what my former pastor always said at each baptism, what if this is the one? The one to cure cancer, the one to stop wars, the one. He allowed us to see each babe as full of possibilities, swaddled in a purpose only God could see. Our job was to nurture that child along the way, to open the doors so that God could speak freely to this child. He didn’t just do this for the male babies. All babies. Somewhere along the way, we as women stop trusting our guts and so does the church. What a loss for us all.

What if you are the one? Would anyone know because you are too nice to speak up? Prayerfully considering what your gut tells you and then using the voice God gave you may just change the world. We might have to get louder, we might have to get mad. We might even have to flat out ask that our voices be heard. Thank God Chef accepts my gut as worthy, as enough. May we all be so generous to each other.  May be find room at the table for loud women, strong women, women who are followers of Jesus, not men. That is a revolution I believe Jesus can get behind. My gut just tells me it is true.

Which Gilmore Girl Am I?

On By LisaIn Arrow, Faith, Stella, The ChefLeave a comment

I finally completed my Gilmore Girls marathon. Not the new editions, the 7 seasons I watched as they came out, rewatched with my Stella. Like millions of others out there, this was our show, our story. I wasn’t sure I could handle sitting alone on the couch, clicking next over and over, if this was masochism, picking at a wound that never heals. Yet something pulled me to the series. Maybe I was searching for answers on how to bridge the gap, maybe I wanted to capture a sense of Stella, whatever the cost. I discovered truths I wasn’t expecting, I gained perspective. Our show, our story provided plenty of warnings, I missed them all.

I was always Lorelia, Stella was Rory. It was clear. We were buddies, we hung out, we enjoyed each other. We were the envy of other mother-daughter relationships in our circle. We were so tight we often excluded others unintentionally, we just had too much history, too many inside jokes. Thoughts from my mind were processed into hers and the response delivered, light speed. We didn’t slow down for anyone else nor did we think we needed to. Chef was our Luke, he made us food, was grumpy. We forgot he wasn’t playing a role, he wasn’t a character. He didn’t appreciate being second fiddle role to his step-daughter. Meal time was rough, Arrow and Chef were often frustrated because we monopolized the conversation. It was our bit. Endearing around the table at Luke’s or Emily’s but not so much for real people who want to be in the show as well, active and not sitting in the audience. We missed that, we were too absorbed with ourselves. Still, I was Lorelia and she was Rory.

I noticed this run through just how enmeshed they were, how Rory was a late-bloomer in many of the normal teenage separation rites. I noticed how Lorelia interfered, got friendly with boyfriends, decided she needed a relationship with them as well. I noticed just how manipulative yet desperate Emily was, I saw her with understanding eyes this time. I got that the inability of Lorelia to seal the deal with a suitor, her relationship with her father cast a long shadow. What I saw differently the most though was the big fight, when the break between Rory and Lorelia took place. I remember being so angry that Lorelia was not going after her, was not doing everything she could to fix the rift. This round, I heard her say she trusted her daughter, she would find her way back. (Easier for her, she knew she was safe in the pool house and the break only lasted 2 months) I watched as she ached and avoided and tried to bring new things into her life to fill the gaping hole left by her daughter. She gets a dog, she remodels her home, she gets engaged. She is rash and determined and still unable to watch shows or go places because everything is connected to Rory. Easier for Rory, she left, she is on new ground. I knew Lorelia’s pain.

I watched Rory struggle too, all the times she wanted to call her mom and share the tiny moments of her day. She didn’t break down in one crash, instead she eased back, she had pride. I knew, just knew with a certainty that defies understanding, that my Stella has felt the exact same way, reaching for her phone before realizing she has chosen not to share anymore. It was hard to watch the reunification, yet like an archeologist dusting gently for clues, I hit next, I watched. When Rory was ready, she came back. That is what I came for, she came back. I wanted more. I wanted a secret recipe for the breadcrumbs to create a trail, to lure her home. I wanted to see something maybe I had forgotten. It wasn’t there.

What hit me the hardest though is that I think my Stella no longer sees me as Lorelia. She has become convinced I am Emily, that her life has been full of manipulations and tricks, that she has to move far away to escape “that world.” I may be Emily, I have followed her path of sending lots of things through the mail, not useless antiques but bits of her keepsakes left in the attic, drawings from Plum, letters, cards, pictures. It worked for Emily, not for me. I realized Emily was always trying to draw her daughter back, wanted to heal their fractured relationship but was too broken herself to make the changes needed to keep her. I hurt for Emily. I hurt for them all.

Finally I watched the revival episodes and ugh has been written about them. Many are disappointed, they wanted story lines resolved. I am really good with the series. All the women of the Gilmore family have found each other, have found a way back into relationship that is healthier and less enmeshed. Patterns are repeating, yes, but many have been broken. After all thats the best we can ask of any of us.

I completed my marathon, I survived the desperate yearning to laugh with my daughter. I found that I am stronger and healing and while still waiting, I too am filling my life up to cover the gaping wound. I know my own Rory will return one day, this isn’t Stars Hollow but it will always be home. Coffee is always available, mom and Chef are here. One day she will call, text, appear. I pray I remember my lines, that all she hears is grace. I pray I remember she is an adult and not a character on a show, not a child returning home from camp. I pray I can give her the space she needs. Mostly I pray I get the chance.