Month: March 2017

Not Yet Spring

On By LisaIn Faith1 Comment

A mere 8 days until spring and the ground is covered with snow, the temperature is barely hitting double digits. No amount of wishing and wanting the next season can change the reality that heavy coats, hats and mittens are necessary today. No amount of wishing and wanting can get me to Easter either, without this time in the wilderness. I almost made it, like our mild winter with no real snowfall, my schedule so full that I was able to run from activity to meeting to deadline with little time for introspection. Did it make it better that my activities were church related?  Lurking behind busyness was my real winter, waiting as each commitment came to a natural conclusion, ending dates nearing for others. The cold air grabs my attention and my energy, reminds me that God has asked specifically for this time. Spring will come, winter’s work is not yet done.

More naps but not rested, I am still tired. Drinking more orange juice and no soda, I am still thirsty. While grateful for the flurry of opportunities that have come my way over the last several months, I am silently crossing off days on the calendar until my schedule looks freer. This season of Lent begs for my attention, begs for my fasting from distractions. I am suddenly aching to fast, my soul is craving the solitude of the wilderness where I can meet up with the voice of the One I long to hear but often tune out with committee meetings and extra sessions. To be fair, I hear God through the works of others in those encounters, but rarely do I experience the up close interaction my soul needs: more quiet time, more alone time, more empty time that allows God space to join me. Lent is a sanctioned time to be alone, to draw inward and consider the condition of my soul.

As a youth I saw Lent as punishment, a time I had to give up something I wanted just to get a big basket of it at the end. As an adult I know that this season is the gift, an opportunity to grow closer to Jesus and deal with my temptations, prepare myself for what is to come. For just as I can’t skip ahead to spring without experiencing winter, there is no easy way to Easter without the Cross. I have missed some time readying my soul for what is to come, my body is reminding me to go away into the wilderness, seek the strength of the Father to face it all.  Most years as I relive this season, it breaks me, as it should. Some seasons more so, some I have skated through if I am honest. Those years I didn’t wander the wilderness searching for Jesus, wishing I could anoint him with my tears. Those years I stayed busy and bought a pretty dress for the big Easter service. I didn’t crave time alone with God, I didn’t listen for His voice. I ran the other way, terrified at what He might say to me.

God and I have come a long way in our trust, He would probably tell you He has never moved. I have come closer, closer, closer still. Maybe one day I will climb into His lap. The fact though that I WANT my alone time to seek out what He has for me means I am getting closer to living out the verse that has forever spoken most deeply to me: I can do all things in Christ who strengthens me. Phil 4:13. I have always interpreted that to mean get through all the hard stuff that has been my life and it is true, leaning on my faith has saved me. But what if there is more? What if I can truly wander the wilderness and find God, as Jesus found his resolve to do the will of His Father, prepared His soul for the hardest request ever, during that fasting and alone time? What if my hard thing is to truly trust God enough to climb into His lap and allow Him to love me?  Like a blast of cold air when I just want to bask in the sun, I am feeling pushed to ask questions and be quiet for the answers.

Friends, I pray you are finding time this season for your own fasting and craving and seeking and searching. The snow will melt in a few days, spring temps will return. Pray with me that I stay focused on the real season.

Can We Be Trusted?

On By LisaIn FaithLeave a comment

I just finished a book study at church, weeks of being stretched and pulled and pushed into uncomfortable places. This was no ordinary study, no “let’s explore our faith and dig a bit deeper”study. We were led by a member of our staff who has a heart for social justice and was on her 3rd round of teaching the book as we read “The New Jim Crow: Mass Incarceration in the Age of Colorblindness” by Michelle Alexander. What began with a group who was often skeptical ended with a call to arms, a search for ways to become active. This book made a difference, these words changed us all.  A church consisting of almost exclusively white, upper middle-class, highly educated people who love Jesus and had little understanding of white privilege, who knew nothing of the systemic, intentional devastation on the black community that the War on Drugs has created, we gathered each Sunday evening to explore what we had read and challenge what we have been taught. Jesus surely is nodding, saying, “Yes, children, yes. This, see all of my children.”

The premise of the book is that the War on Drugs has targeted black and brown people, criminalizing addiction, creating a profitable industry of prisons, rewarding local police  with federal dollars for every increasing arrests, dismantling 4th Amendment rights, and most of all, selling it all to the American people by creating the image of the black criminal. I won’t debate any of this with you, read the book, Michelle Alexander does an excellent job of backing up her assertions with facts, real facts, not the alternative ones we are being fed these days. I understand if you are skeptical, any of us were at first as well. Incredulous, even. We are educated, remember. How could we have fallen for this? How did we miss this? We are aware, many of us are liberal leaning, we think we are open to seeing racial injustice. We still missed it. We got sucked in and got complacent. We thought having a black president meant things were better. Better is not an indicator, better is relative. Like between contractions, you might feel better but the big ones are coming, it is going to hurt like hell. America, we need to hurt to fix this mess.

As a fifty plus woman, I have been taught to say we don’t see color, that we are striving to be colorblind. Is this familiar? We aren’t supposed to talk about race, that makes us racist. Michelle Alexander says this: “The colorblindness ideal is premised on the notion that we, as society, can never be trusted to see race and treat each other daily fairly or with genuine compassion.” As followers of Jesus, does that not strike a blow? I can’t stop reading that line. We can’t be trusted to SEE each other. I write constantly about my own brokenness and search for grace, about taking off the mask and allowing God to meet me in my vulnerable places. I ask to be seen as a child of God, but I have subscribed to a philosophy that teaches me not to SEE black and brown people.  I am convicted by this line. She goes on to say:”A commitment to color consciousness, by contrast, places FAITH in our capacity as humans to show care and concern for others, even as we are fully cognizant of race and possible racial differences.”  Yes, faith, trust, belief, that we are taught each week in church to see everyone as a child of God, and to behave accordingly. By pretending we don’t see color, we are pretending we don’t see what happens to people of color also. I never would have imagined admitting to my own racism, but I have found that my search for the holy grail of colorblindness has led me to a wicked chalice of racial indifference. This is a horrible admission. I can do nothing but begin today to correct the path and acknowledge that I was wrong.

Ultimately, as a Jesus follower, I am called, we all are called to keep seeking truth, to push away the lies and distortions and help our neighbors get what we have and then share some more. Who is my neighbor though? We have been able to insulate ourselves in our safe suburbs where we find mirror images of ourselves, so easy to love our neighbors. I think Jesus meant something else, was casting a wider net. I know He is asking more of me and I am listening, yes, I am listening. The battles over immigration occurring right now surely are not pleasing our Jesus, are the next wave of prisoners to fill the costly buildings being emptied a bit by softer laws on marijuana use. I can’t unsee what is being sold to me as a safety issue, as a threat to my security. I know now how this goes down, who loses and who wins big. Our Jesus was brown. Would you let Him in to our country, would you fear Him today? Ask yourself why and question where the information is coming from and who stands to gain from teaching us to fear people of color.

This book is not an easy read, is best done in a group with someone to hold you accountable and listen as you struggle. But if you don’t have a group, read it anyway. If you think I am crazy, really read it to prove me wrong. If you are scared to read it because you think I may be right, read it anyway. If you want to make America great again, read this and tell me when it was great for ALL Americans. We have some work to do and it is going to hurt like hell. As it should. People of color have been feeling the pain for far too long. Do you dare join me and the others who have read this book and found a new path towards Jesus that includes dealing with our own leper colonies, our own outcasts, that shows we are held captive, we all are imprisoned by racism? I want to be trusted to see all people and treat them fairly and with genuine compassion. That is my Holy Grail. Will you join me? You have to know up front it is going to hurt.

My Mother Is Yellow

On By LisaIn Arrow, Faith, Mom, Stella3 Comments

When asked her favorite color my mother would have told you it was blue. Still, I think of yellow when I remember my mom, years spent peering up at the counter as she mixed and measured cakes using her yellow pyrex bowl. When she pulled this bowl out of the cabinet I knew delicious things were in my future. I could consider the electric skillet as a symbol of my mother, she did a lot frying for our family. But the yellow bowl, that was the good stuff. That was when mom was making cookies and cakes and the extras, before boxes made the process easier, faster. The yellow bowl meant dessert, meant mom was going to hand out one electric beater and the emptied bowl to each of her three children to lick, the pre-dessert to children who hovered about her legs and watched and probably whined as she spent even more time in the kitchen after working outside our home and making meals all week. Yellow is my mom to me, the times she nurtured us with sweet delights beyond just feeding us.

I always knew that when she died, the bowl would be my inheritance. One day though before she left us, I discovered it in my brother’s cabinet. I had never told her what the bowl represented, I am not sure I knew it back then.  She had already given it to him, she no longer needed such a big item as her baking days were mostly behind her. She bought her cakes and pies and treats at the store or more accurately, her husband did. Each trip to my brother’s house saw me trying to sneak the bowl away, his watchful eyes ensured I was never successful. A trip through some antique shops allowed the purchase of not one but two of these bowls, a back-up, just in case. Not the same, not the years of mom scraping the sides and standing over it, but still, my cabinet stores my own yellow bowl, a legacy of cakes and cookies. (I have teased my brother that I have swapped out my store purchase with his bowl, that now he has the antique find and I have mom’s. Can you tell I am a bit hung up on this piece of kitchenware?) My Kitchen-Aid makes mixing those items much faster but I still choose my yellow bowl. I use it for more than baking, it holds soups and spaghetti and most any dinner item. I love my yellow bowl, it connects me to the good parts of my mom.

I remember potato salad from that bowl, the best kind of potato salad, the bowl was always  completely full. I still prefer mine at room temperature, like it was just prepared, like I am eating it right out of mom’s bowl, unable to wait for it all to chill in the refrigerator. The bowl meant it was going to taste good and it did. The one caveat is that every year at Christmas she made a braunschweiger ball that I detested. I was called in to help with the process and abhorred sticking my hands in to the icy mess of cold processed meat and freezing ketchup. I have yet to taste this atrocity. Mom wasn’t perfect with her bowl, I have forgiven this misstep.

My brother is the cook in his household, I cook for anyone who sits still long enough. Mom taught us this is how you show love. Don’t tell my brother but I am secretly glad that we both, the only living family left, have a bowl. We have a piece of the good from our childhood. We shared mixer beaters dripping with batter resting on the edge of a yellow bowl, we fought over that bowl and the chance to run little fingers along the smooth surface to catch the batter she purposely left for us.  The times mom was just a mom.

Before she died,  I was seeking a particular recipe from her. I never got it. She was going to look through all of her cookbooks and call me back. I inherited her books but still can’t find the one that I wanted. Seems fitting, I will always want just a bit more from her. Still, most of my calls to her began with the ask for a recipe, she would rattle it off, I better have something to write on ready. She gave ingredients and steps mixed together, I often had to number and edit or if I was familiar with the steps, I left that part out, just getting quantities. Most of the calls with her ended with a scrap of paper, an envelope that was close by now covered in my horrible handwriting as I flew to keep up. These are the recipes I pulled the most, these are stained and rumpled and well loved. These will be my legacy one day when my children consider what color I am. My favorite color is teal but maybe they will remember me as yellow, like a bowl that I pulled out to make them delightful treats. We don’t get to control how the next generation remembers us, but we can invite them to the table while we are still here. My door is open. Are you hungry? I am happy to whip up something to eat, let me grab my yellow bowl.

Truth is Hard

On By LisaIn Faith, The Chef3 Comments

Chef and I took one of those personality surveys that pop up frequently on social media. Months of extreme togetherness and devastating stressfulness had taken a toll on our communication, it was time to back up and find a new perspective. When we looked at how we evaluate our world not in “I’m right, you are wrong” terms but with some solid science to support the very basis of our personalities, we found a means to communicate. Light shone brightly again. I already actually knew my personality type when I took the survey, having taken it many times throughout my educational experiences. Chef had not. Still, it was in the comparing that we found our important information. We discovered we each come to decision making from vastly different places, not to make each other mad but because we use criteria at almost opposite ends of the spectrum. We discovered that we hold utterly opposite values to be dear. We knew we were quite opposite, we have always known this, but stepping away from the emotion of it all and discussing it in terms of science furthered talks and allowed respect. We found what had been truly annoying us about the other, bringing hurt and frustration was also what had drawn us to the other initially. We found our way back. This little survey did what months of hard talks had been unable to achieve.

What strikes me about this exercise is that we had to find some facts, had to get away from  the emotion and our perceptions to uncover the real truths. I am drawn to real truths, to authenticity like a child to a candy store. I want more, I am insatiable. I want to be around authentic people, folks who are seeking truth and digging deeper to discover their real selves. I am often frustrated that the next questions aren’t asked, the follow-up is left hanging, I want to know more. Superficial relationships are what I have with those who pass my change back, those who hand me my food in the drive through, not significant people in my inner circle. From inner circle people, I expect truth. I give them my truth. This can be a tough standard to reach, not everyone is ready to bare all, not everyone wants that much truth. Unfortunately, I am unable to have lasting relationships with people who aren’t on that path.

Brene Brown in The Gifts of Imperfections, says: “Authenticity is the daily practice of letting go of who we think we’re supposed to be and embracing who we are.” Heady stuff, but the operative word is daily. Not a one time choice to be AUTHENTIC SELF but working actively every day, every encounter. Exhausting to consider if we have lived out our lives in secrecy, in shame, in others expectations. Considering that walls would crumble, that jobs might shift, that friends might disappear, marriages certainly would alter, if we actually got honest about who we are and what we are feeling, I hear the argument for status quo. I just can’t. Thus when offered up an encounter with someone who is hiding, who is living in secrecy, I cringe. I look for the door, my escape route. I know something isn’t right and I want out. I know all about secrets and those things are hurtful. Ugly painful horrible truth I can handle. Bring those to the light, God will meet us there. Yucky stuff happens in the dark.

I share my truths, I share my perspectives. Understand that they are mine, I don’t expect them to be yours. Just as Chef took his own survey and we found room in our marriage for us both, I don’t expect everyone to take on my beliefs as their own. That doesn’t lead to authenticity either. What I do expect is that we have discussions without bringing the Kingdom of God judgment into my beliefs, that there is room for disagreement about my truths but not about my person. I love that Chef met me in the hard talk as we discovered more about each other and our relationship. Neither was expected to cave or even bend, just to gain understanding. I love that Chef is strong enough to have a strong wife as well. His identify is not diminished if mine has power. He is a champion of my voice growing louder and louder. My relentless truth seeking can be exhausting, it can be overwhelming. It is difficult when I am ready to cut free of a relationship that has shown it is unable to be rooted in truth, when he has ties to the same relationship. Still, he always trusts my truth. He has never questioned my authenticity, he has never used my faith against me.

I wrote a piece earlier this week and did not afford privacy to all who were in it. That was a mistake. I did not consider overlapping circles, that some readers would know the identities of those in the piece. My thought process was that this was a public person in a public role who has authority and the power of the pulpit and our conversation was not private. Still for those who were hurt, this is my public apology. A private one was given as well. The story could have been told with a name change of “powerful person in the church” and it would have been equally effective, but may have blown up my inbox as folks wondered who would have said the comment listed. As it stood, I received no questions. Truth is hard, growth is hard. I am growing as I celebrate the first year of blogging. I stand by my truth, the one piece of me I have never surrendered. As a woman who began life learning she was less, she was an object for men, I reject the notion that God wants my truth to be quiet. The Kingdom of God is not a weapon for silencing unruly women, it is a safe haven for us all. Just as Chef and I have found room at the table from opposite sides, I hope you will bring your most authentic self and join me for hard talks and real growth. That is actually where grace meets us both. Praise be to the God of love and encouragement and empowerment to all His children.

If you haven’t caught this video yet, it is worth 18 minutes of your time. I promise.

http://www.umc.org/news-and-media/breaking-the-silence-to-build-support

Monsters Go Away

On By LisaIn Faith1 Comment

Monsters lurk under the bed, in the closet, in my head. Fear has guided my steps for years, tiptoeing around the terrifying memory beasts that threaten to pull me under, away. Some  I have managed to slay, the biggest ones, the horrible one-eyed demons that bring back childhood trauma. Still, the monsters who remain are sneakier, relentless. They roam and wander but never go far, awaiting an opportunity when I am vulnerable or tired, when I am a bit unsure or the day has been rough. These monsters deliver self-doubt, they coat me with shame, they whisper “you are not good enough” in my dreams. I know these monsters have gathered again to slink under my defenses when I become nervous, when my anxiety replaces peace. I know I have let them charge through when I begin to ruminate on what others say instead of listening to my own voice. The monsters laugh delightedly as I question, as I wonder, as I look for them instead of remembering that I Am A CHILD OF GOD. I begin to chant, “Monsters have no place here.”

Plum and I read a book of scary stories before bed last night, a fitting ending to a really yuck day. I never read spooky tales to him, we don’t even own any, aside from the Harry Potter series, but that is scary with purpose. Still, I picked up this little book at our church book fair and knew it was a light version of ghost stores, which Plum has been asking me about recently. So we snuggled in after a long day and sought some monsters. We found them to be funny, we knew that behind each effort to frighten us was just a misunderstood prop. While I worried that these tales may grow bigger with his imagination, that I might find his sleep disturbed, our household wakened by his night fears, he slept peacefully. He knew those monsters were silly, he knew he was safe. Before he fell asleep, he shared a story about two children from his evening class who had a disagreement. One child was not nice to the other. I asked who he thought we should tell when that happens. I was prompting for an answer “the teacher.” My wise Plum said, “God.” We told God about the situation, asked God to remind us to watch our words and behavior, to help us not be mean and to guide us in telling a safe adult when we witness others who aren’t playing nicely. Satisfied, he then told me Miss S handled it. He still wanted some God back up. I don’t have to climb a far mountain to get my deep teachings, just snuggle in for sleepy chatter with this kid who explains the inner workings of God to me.

I have some monsters tailing me, knocking about, I can hear them. They want to steal my voice, they want my peace. These tiny little villains want me to believe they are dragons, giants, fierce horrors. Really, they are echoes of the past, they only make sound if I listen. They only breathe if I give them air. They are props in a story meant to undermine my more, meant to confuse me into becoming less less less until I am a shadow and they run freely through my soul. Yesterday I cowered to my monsters, I allowed words to twist me into knots. I slunk away, I retreated. But the monsters didn’t know my arsenal is stocked, I have better resources now. I can rely on discerning friends who stop the ruminating and sort out the knots, help clarify the real battle and help me walk away from what doesn’t require a fight.

Today I will rise again, I will use my voice again, I will remember that my gift is from God. The autopsy shows the dragon I destroyed was only a wee chameleon, nothing to fear. A mere prop that comes with reminders that not only can I fight back, I can put some doors on the closet, I can sweep under the bed. I can control the boundaries and say no thank you when the monsters come knocking. Shame, you are not welcome here. I AM A CHILD OF GOD.  My no’s will be more frequent in the future, I realize I must create some distance between monster zones and myself. I’m not on a monster hunt, just cleaning house a bit and chanting as I go about it, “Monsters have no place here.”

Ruminate
Nervous

Hair Shaming

On By LisaIn Faith, The ChefLeave a comment

Sitting across from my Chef one day, finishing a scrapped together lunch, chatting, catching up, he turned to me and uttered words with such sincerity, no guile or malice, and yet I was lost on how to respond. He said, “So when do you think you will let your hair grow out?”  My head tilted, I paused, asked him to repeat the question, all warnings that he was on dangerous territory and maybe he might want to back up, rethink, even abandon his line of questioning all together. Subtleties are lost with him though and he continued on. To be fair to him, when we dated, when we married, I had long blond hair, I was thinner. I presented an image of femininity that garnered second glances. So what he wants maybe hasn’t changed in the 20 plus years of our togetherness, I am the one who has altered the contract. I cut my hair, shorter, a bit shorter until I planned my trip to South East Asia and really cut it. Travel freed me of the long hot hair and the need to please anyone other than myself with my appearance. I didn’t realize he was still waiting for me to go back.

An older gentleman I barely know, I am sure he doesn’t even know my name, walked out of the sanctuary doors as the service ended two weeks ago and stopped in his tracks. He took one long look at me and remarked to the other female usher, “Do you think she needs  a haircut?” His sarcastic remark as one foot was in the commons and one still within the room of God’s Holy Place, stunned me. I didn’t remark on his clothing, his choice to have more coffee and less toothbrushing, his.. whatever… I actually didn’t notice his physical appearance. I was so shocked that he felt completely comfortable discussing my person, a stranger to him, and present it as a negative. Had he offered a compliment on the fact that my shoes matched or my scarf was lovely, we would have smiled and moved on. Why is my hair a thing? I know a man who married a woman he fell for when he was just out of high school, she was barely 16. They have been married for over 30 years.  He has insisted she maintain the hairstyle of her 16 year old self. She does it. I have always thought this was creepy and unnerving and an oddity but am now questioning if he isn’t just more honest.

For as many moments that men feel the need to discuss my very short hair, women secretly, in whispered tones, tell me they wish they were so brave. Store clerks, the person next to me waiting for a table, the lady cheering the kids on at any event. Time and again, I hear women tell me that they love my short hair and wish their husbands would accept them with such a cut. They look longingly at my head and want to hear stories, as if I were showing travel pictures while they have to stay home. I tell these women to do it. Listen to themselves. Own their bodies. What am I missing?

But maybe they know what I didn’t all along, the image of beauty is so ingrained that even after 4 years, my husband is still waiting, as if this was some wacky experiment. As if he has been uber patient and understanding, now can we just get back to his needs? When was the last time a woman asked her man to do his hair in a way that is pleasing to her? Women, have you accepted your husband’s hair loss as part of aging or have you asked him to get implants, asked him to remain the thing of beauty you first fell for, not budging on acceptance of the inner glory? Is this a thing I just don’t know about?

Today is the day women are striking. I have friends who are posting that they have no idea why, they think it is dumb. This breaks my heart for many reasons but then I remember that they can’t cut their hair. Their husbands would get mad. They don’t trust their worth in their marriage outside of their appearance. That we as women are made to believe we are that insignificant, that what we bring is measured in tress length, this is more than heart breaking. Do these women not understand this is the equivalent of being forced to wear a covering to hide your beauty? Your person is controlled by the will of the men who decide what you can show, what is deemed acceptable. This is why women march, this is why feminism. This is why a day away from all the jobs that women fulfill is critical for men to see us not as objects for their pleasure but as people.

Every Wednesday I cook a meal for roughly 100 people at our church before they break up into several small groups for study. My pastor’s wife and I had joked that I might strike on this day, that I might not do this thing I so love, that I have volunteered to do, in solidarity with those who are leaving their jobs for the day. She told me she warned her husband. He had no worries that I would be there. I assumed it was because he knows this opportunity feeds my soul. Still, I planned to cook red foods, I created a booklet for each table highlighting important women of the bible. As I shared with the pastor what I had planned, I told him that I was doing other things to mark the day since I wasn’t striking. His response, “Well, it is for employed women.”  Boom. That just happened. With one sentence he unknowingly diminished the “work”  that I do for 3 days each week to serve God and this pastor’s vision. His intent was not malicious, his impact was not affirming. Because I don’t receive a paycheck for what I do, is my worth less?

Men, are you unknowingly treating the women you love as objects rather than as equals? Women, are you afraid to grow fully into the child of God you are meant to be because you are instead striving to please a man? I am convinced that feminism is biblical, that we are called on by Jesus Himself to love each other as we would want to be loved. We are asked to love no one above God. Shaming is not the work of Jesus followers. Wear something red today and tell a women what you appreciate about her character. Leave her hair alone. She won’t say anything about yours. Let’s get back to talking about things that really matter. Like where you leave your dirty clothes.

(Amendment: words are powerful, labels are weighty. By using the identifier of “pastor’s wife” to describe the relationship in the story, I was in no means saying that is all this women is, merely the role that she was playing in the story. In describing the interaction with the pastor and highlighting the discussion that had already come before with his significant other, my intent was to show how easy it is to shame women with an off-hand remark, unintended as the shaming may be. Public apologies to any who were hurt by this post, who felt they were slighted or called less then their more. Apologies to any who were concerned that this couple not feel the respect they deserve.)

Good Breaking

On By LisaIn Arrow, Faith, Plum, Stella4 Comments

Apple pie, layers of crusts surrounding cinnamon sugar coated slices softened in juices, cut into wedges and served up, so delectable, an irresistible gift. The baker offers up pieces of themselves, labor and love melting with flour, the tiniest bit of salt. She watches as those with the plates of pie carve into her heart’s gift, fork slicing through the crusty wall, reaching the luscious fruit, she watches as the first taste of her love is taken. Waiting waiting anticipating the moment when taste buds accept her love, know her gift is of herself, that moment when eyes shine and a smile begins, a sigh escapes, the fork returns for another bite. Her soul rejoices, she broke herself into pieces that found new resting places as others accept her slivers of love.

There is a breaking that happens when good is coming, like the sun pushing up over the horizon to interrupt the darkness or the tight shell of an egg releasing the promise of breakfast. Good breaking surrounds me, the rip of paper as my grandson prepares more artwork, the grind of coffee beans wafting me awake.  Finding, noticing the good breaks is challenging when the biggest break is my heart, splintering slivering shattering silently into fragments unrecognizable and irrepable. I watch from a distance as the pieces shred away, captivated by the beauty as light catches memory slices and reflects hopes and dreams. Paralyzed rooted maybe unwilling to stop the destruction anymore I just gaze at the growing heart heap and watch my life loves destroy what I gave them. I don’t think this is good breaking, my pieces seem too shattered and scattered ever be restored. I gave my soul pieces, they rest within others now, aching to be rejoined.

That gorgeous apple pie left out on the counter, left unattended, forgotten, will grow moldy, will sink into the plate, become a heap of mush, the extravagant gift wasted. Apples cut and left to rot are not good breaking. My pieces are too fractured to collect, scattered by the winds of harsh words and shriveled by unforgiving neglect. I watch, wonder if I will ever be whole again, if we will ever celebrate the good breaks of rising suns and the crash into language of a first word, the busting into mobility of a first step. I imagine a place where my heart pieces are reconnected, bigger, more light through the cracks, room for more more ever more still. Those are good breaks. Today I wonder about  growing moldy, slinking down into the juices of despair as I see more pieces of my heart flake off, out of reach.  Then I remember those slivers are not meant to ever come back to me, an egg shell cracked is not to be restored. The glory comes in what is created after the destruction, after the crisp apple loses it peel and the sun pushes us into a new day. More light comes into my broken heart where all of those slivers and slices were carved out. If I am left with only crumbles, I have given the me God said to offer up.

There is good breaking, where more light sneaks through walls into our souls with forgiveness, casting out shadows of shame, slicing up room for new hope and creation. I pray that you can find those broken pieces and see the beauty that came from gifting your love to others. I pray that you can find that grace comes in severing your hold on those gifted pieces. They are no longer ours, any more than the baker would ask for that piece of pie back. Let our hearts be broken and slivers offered, let us rejoice in the light of our crumblings.  This is good breaking.

 

Breaking Boards

On By LisaIn Faith2 Comments

I watched Plum break a board yesterday. I listened to his instructor every week tell this rag tag group of boys that one day they would have the chance to do so. I watched these squirmy little boys file in after a long week of classes, bodies aching for freedom and instead being called to line up, listen, obey for just one more hour. They struggled, they wiggled, they popped each other with an errant elbow and wandered off to watching parents or sneak some Friday popcorn from their backpacks. Still they mostly managed the moves, they found ways to align their little bodies with that of the instructor and they staved off their hunger for the extra hour each week. Promotion ceremony had arrived and the boards were visible, I was riddled with doubt.

Most of these children barely weigh 50lbs.  Reading skills are all over the place, making the book work required a challenge for many. Most never had a pen or pencil, it became habit for them to beeline to me and the baggie I kept in my purse of extras just for this purpose. They are babies. I wanted to line them up at the tables, feed them apples and peanut butter crackers and let them run the gym afterwards. The instructor asked them to be respectful and responsible and to listen. When a boy would show her an ouchie hand, she could be heard asking if he needed an ambulance, okay no, then join your friends please. I wanted to give him a band-aid, also from my purse. It struck me that I saw these children as who they used to be, little tiny boys. She saw their future. She saw the need for disciplined choices in the face of discomfort. I am really great at being a grandma, I would be a horrible DoJo.

Someone asked Mama in an almost mocking manner what she would do if Plum turned into an addict, would it all really be so easy for her? This conversation came on the heels of her encouraging setting safe boundaries, turning off the deep desire to enable, owning that addiction is a family disease. The remark broke her heart, hit every worry that has plagued her from the moment of conception. As we followed her hurt but also her choices, I reminded her that she is already doing the hard stuff. She is practicing now, just like those little boys. The great big horrible daunting choice of what to do when your child shows you that he has an addiction that is out of his control, that he is engaging in illegal behavior, that he is skipping school and is broken with mental illness, that hard choice doesn’t just appear after years and years of easy street. Like those squirmy hungry boys who had to choose to line up and listen when they really didn’t want to, she is making hard choices every day. She is practicing. She is breast feeding her daughter, through mastitis and c-section recovery when it would have been easier to switch to formula and get more sleep. This is not a bash on those who have made that choice, merely casting a light into Mama’s life. She has practiced telling Plum yes he does actually have to stay after school again today, no he cannot leave early. She is practicing by gaining control of her home and creating structure for her entire family. This often means telling everyone no it is not movie time, we are cleaning up. With each success, she is gaining the confidence to move to the next level, she is self-promoting for the next board to break.

God forbid she is ever faced with such horrible choices. I hate that any of us are. I hate that she was mocked in such a hurtful way. The reality of parenting an addicted child is that you no longer get to give snacks when they are hungry, bring extra pencils because they forgot. They must find their own ability to succeed and not be undermined by the parent’s need to nurture. They must have the consequences of not getting their work done and then the reward of doing it themselves. The addict child has to lose the shelter of a loving parent early, the parent has to let go faster or will be forced to let go forever. My soul cannot even consider the thought of my Plum under these circumstances yet my mind knows his genetics put him at risk. So off to class he goes, especially when he doesn’t want to. He always has his own pencil. He is just a baby but the world sees him differently. Thank God for an instructor who sees a child who could kick a board with confidence and break it.

The boys anxiously lined up, watched as the first child was called to meet the instructor by the stack of boards. He clumsily got into his stance, told the board  with little assurance that he would break it with his front kick. Then tried over and over. The board didn’t break. I knew this whole event was a mistake. I wanted to call it quits. I looked about the room for this child’s parents, where were they? Why weren’t they saying, no, maybe he isn’t ready? Still it carried on, the instructor encouraging, giving pointers, inspiring. She reminded him of the correct stance, got him fired up. When his kick landed on the board with enough force to split it in two, the room erupted in joy. A collective celebration for this child who then got his stripe of confidence across his belt. Many children were able to land one blow and split the wood, some needed more chances. Plum did it in two. Each boy was on his own journey of self-discovery, conquering more than the board. Their desire to be stronger, to be little ninjas, to be bigger and tougher outweighed their fear and doubt, overcame their hunger and their wiggles.

I watched as these little boys were promoted after they practiced for weeks through hard choices to show that their will could be channeled into their goals. They could do it if they wanted it badly enough. The same goes for parenting, all the day-to-day rough decisions prepare us to set aside our needs and focus on the goal. I realized I am just too tired, too spent doing such hard work. My soul aches for those who have to make these daily hard choices. My desire is to make cookies for all the children and see that they have pencils. God knows we always need grandmas, but we most assuredly need more DoJos. My heart is over-flowing with gratitude for this young woman who inspired a room of ruffians to be their best selves. They all broke the board, she didn’t quit until they did. No one walked away until they achieved the goal. The split some wood with a kick, I feel sure they will all remember that moment, the exact moment when each boy realized he could achieve greatness.

(It should be noted that this class also held ONE LITTLE GIRL, for clarity sake I did not write about her. She deserves a story all her own. She inspired me. Her book work was done before anyone else, she sat up straighter, she listened better, she knew the moves quicker and she won almost every game. She blew the boys away. She broke the board in one kick. She probably weighs 40lbs. She will be the star of another story, many stories I am sure. Also, she always had her own pencil and never got up for popcorn.)

Doubt
Desire

Math is Hard

On By LisaIn Faith, Stella, The Chef2 Comments

Math has never been my best subject, I am more inclined towards words, letters. When a teacher in 5th grade taught me to diagram sentences, creating lines and trees on paper, I found the best use for graph paper. I later went on to take advanced algebra in summer school, a rush to fit in all of my credits, squeezing in room for more English Lit courses, thus I learned it for the test and then let it slide away as I went swimming.  What I do know of math is this, when you get married, you add. You bring in this person you have chosen and ask them to not only accept all of your lovable parts but also your quirks and not so great parts. Then you ask them to do the same with your family of origin. This is where sometimes math gets tricky.

When my Chef introduced me to his mother, the kindest most generous crazy woman who has no filter on her mouth or thoughts who does not understand the concept of boundaries,  I was accepted. I still question her wisdom but that is a different story. Nevertheless, Chef and I and his mom and his two brothers became a wider family. My family was surely easy for Chef to love, after all they were my family. Certainly I came with two children, an ex-husband, a battered relationship with my own mother and her odd pick of replacement husband (see how I feel about that one?) and of course my brother and sister-in-law. My family required no adjustments, they were mine. Understanding the nuances and communication styles of his though, that was like multiplication. I didn’t always feel like I had added just one mother-in-law, she is a powerhouse. She often speaks loudly, forcefully, pulls weeds in my flower beds and makes plans with my Chef without talking to me. For holidays. That he agrees to. Without talking to me. Well, mostly we have corrected  that one, but still, the math was hard. I wasn’t always sure about this addition. It would have felt much easier to have just married Chef and move him to Lisa Island where I knew all the inhabitants, my family. But that would have been division. More math. Bad math. Easier, more comfortable for me, not so for my Chef.

The truth is that had I created or pushed for that bad math, I would have missed out on the richness that has developed between me and my mother-in-law. She accepted me first, it took me longer. I love this crazy boisterous extended family, so unlike what I experienced as a child. I know Chef loves the children I brought into the relationship as if he had been there from the beginning, I know how deeply he loves my brother and sister-in-law. We allowed the math problems to become celebrations as we added more and more. (Special note: we have not added in the ex-husband. I am not crazy.)

My point is this: math is hard for some of us, marriage is hard for most of us. Both start with the basics we learn in kindergarten though, just keep adding. We don’t learn to take away for some time, multiplication comes next and division is the very last thing learned, like a last resort. If we consider dividing as our first response to added family members, we are just doing the math wrong. As an English major I can state this with authority. As a mother with an estranged daughter who was wooed away by a new love, I can proclaim it from the mountaintops. Division is bad. I propose we focus on adding, seeing the good and working through the hard. I propose we leave advanced math to God who does the taking away. Let’s just keep adding more to who we love and to who we accept and who we invite to our dinner tables and our flower beds. Let’s add to who we forgive and who we offer mercy and grace and peace to, we may just discover one day we can no longer remember which ones we started with and which ones were supplemental. A blurred family tree with lines that even a math teacher couldn’t graph, connecting points intersecting and reaching out, across.  Oops, I think I moved into geometry. Or Algebra again? Math is hard. Marriage is harder. Lets just add.

Ashes

On By LisaIn Faith, Plum, The Chef4 Comments

Fat Tuesday, the day to live it up and indulge, as if we need permission go all in on our vices. Don’t get me wrong, I love the parades, I love the beads, I love the excitement and energy. I love the idea of celebration together, so little to celebrate these days. A thousand miles away from the big party in New Orleans, still the day before fasting begins arrived and I wondered at what it all really means. In our home we have been fasting for several months, leaving hope and joy out of our daily diets. We have avoided high calorie elation and glee, sticking to the austerity foods of despair and depression. Chef surely has been on this strict diet, I have to admit to cheating snacks on the side, away from his view. Time with friends allowed me to feast on bits of glee and slices of hope. Sermons at church fed me reminders of hope, Plum always brings a taste of joy. Finally, we are entering back into a season of dining together on these delicacies and the thought of fasting for another 40 days is unsettling.  We just left the dark wilderness yet the calendar is calling us back into it as we walk with Jesus in preparation for Easter.  I want to Easter now.

I have to wonder though at the timing. We have been wandering for 8 months now. We finally see some light and are asked to wander some more, spiritually at least. What is to be gained by turning back around? What did Jesus gain from that time of separation? He was tempted, He prayed intentionally, He was prepared for the darkest times ahead. It would be easy to lose the lessons gained from our own wanderings, lose the humility, the centering, the focus of the wilderness now that light is shining in our eyes. Excitement that comes with new beginnings can cause us to forget that we are merely on the edge of the forest, not yet clear of shadows and the chill. Old habits can resurface, did we wander long enough to internalize the trail markers and remember how we found our way out?

Of course, the season of Lent calls us to slow down, to check our pace. Chef is just getting up to speed again, but I have to consider that maybe I have been running a bit too fast. A pit stop to check my vitals feels unnecessary as I rush forward into my more, the tug to slow down feels like punishment, like when I was a teenager and gave up chocolate for Lent. Truly a sacrifice when I have great momentum. Candy never was more enticing than those 40 days without, never tasted sweeter than Easter morning when I found my basket filled with my favorite kinds. But many times I would discover that I didn’t really want it as much as I thought, it was merely the idea of it, the longing, the knowing I couldn’t have it. Cravings for Three Musketeer and Snickers bars were replaced with thoughts of Jesus on the cross. By the time I was free to indulge again, I found my diet had changed, my desires had changed. If only I hadn’t worked so hard to push this candy back in. Because every year whatever I have chosen to let go of for Lent was really something I needed to let go of for good. A supreme sacrifice for 40 days was preparation for the rest of my life. I have yet to accept the offer. Will this be the year that I offer up my rushing that leaves others behind? Will this be the season that sees me sacrifice my constant movement to spend some quality time in the wilderness, alone with God?

My pastor marked Plum’s forehead with ashes and my soul broke open, I almost fell to the floor crying. Plum looked so earnestly into the pastor’s eyes, absorbed his deep words of God’s love, and then returned to his seat to wiggle and jostle the boys around him. A holy moment lost in “little boy too late in the evening” rowdiness. Still I bore witness. The pastor etched my forehead with ashes and I am not sure I have ever felt more loved. I am pretty sure Jesus was speaking through this man, I think that quite often. But this night, in this moment, he and I were alone, the others all fell away. He spoke words of affirmation while marking ashes along my forehead. Life giving hope out of the death of my Jesus. The moment was actually too powerful for me to sit with my family, my friends any longer in the sanctuary. I left and returned to my safe alone place, the kitchen where I could weep  undetected. I may have looked like a martyr to others as the service ended and I was finishing the meal clean up, they didn’t know I was selfish and needed more time alone with Jesus who had just touched my soul.

The season of Lent is powerful, leads us to the cross, to Calvary, to the empty tomb, to the proof of resurrection. Lent is calling me to slow down and stand on the edge of the forest, accept some darkness, address a bit the ugliness that runs freely in my hidden wilderness. Last night I spent some time with Jesus who promised to go with me on the journey, who told me that I was worth it, He was worth it. My soul is worth it. I will eat chocolate, I will continue to drink Coke. This Lenten season I am doing some soul work. Back the wilderness I go.

Center
Quicken